The Boyfriend Experience
by hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: Will Scott is a man with a very... particular skill-set. As Ms. Adler's only male escort he's seen every debauchery known to man. So when a client asks him to help her friend Molly get over a broken engagement, he assumes it will be a simple job. Mistake #1, right there... AU Sex Work, written for the Sherlolly Big Bang. Past Character Death, Mentions of Drug-Use, Sex and Violence
1. Force Majeure

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely Quarto from AO3- Any mistakes, however, are mine. And just to be clear: **this fic is NSFW, it features depictions of past drug abuse, past major character death, prostitution, BDSM practices, references to violence and tonnes upon tonnes of sex. In fact, our heroes spend more time shagging than doing anything else.** So if that's not your cup of tea, you have been warned. If it is, however, something you might be interested in, read on...

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE: FORCE MAJEURE**

* * *

 _Room 211_

 _The Metropole Hotel, Belgravia_

Sherlock walks over to his client, nonchalantly hooks his fingers through the studded leather collar around his neck.

"Now, Mr. Anderson," he says crisply, "what is it that your mouth is for?"

And he yanks the collar sharply before the man can answer, dragging him a couple of inches across the highly polished bathroom floor and making him gasp. Wriggle. His handcuffs, dog-lead and humbler prevent him from escaping; The ball-gag in his mouth prevents him from making much noise at all.

Mrs. Anderson- Sherlock's other client- gives a small, hungry intake of breath at the sight and leans forward, eyes narrowing.

Her expression is best described as… hungry.

"That's it," she breathes, eyes alight. "That's just what he deserves, the cheating, conniving bastard."

"Then that's just what he shall receive," Sherlock says. "Isn't it, Mr. Anderson? Isn't it?"

He yanks at the dog-collar again and Mrs. Anderson crows in delight.

"Now show me what your mouth is for," he says. "And make it worth my while or I'll beat you black and blue, you worthless, lying, little whore."

And with studied ease he forces Mr. Anderson's head down towards his shoe. The man shakes his head, attempting to pull away, but Sherlock does not acquiesce; Anderson has a small rag tucked into his left palm if he wishes to safe-word out and he has yet to use it- In fact, past sessions indicate that he's probably enjoying himself immensely right now.

Sherlock is proved right when another sharp tug on his head causes Anderson to sag, his body slouching into the familiar, submissive posture Sherlock associates with this man's moving into subspace.

Swift and deft, Sherlock reaches down and pulls open the ball-gag. Takes it off.

Mr. Anderson takes in a deep, gusty breath, his chest expanding massively and then sets to licking at Sherlock's shoe with a feral, desperate single-mindedness.

His cock hangs, thick and ready and useless, down between his spread knees.

Dog-leash still in hand Sherlock drags him towards the toilet seat before seating himself upon it and opening his fly. Pulling out his own cock. Mr. Anderson follows along after him, his tongue licking and sliding around Sherlock's shoe, paying particular (unhygienic) attention to his sole and heel. He's panting like a dog, his hips pushing furiously in pointless, pathetic rhythm-

His hands are planted against the floor, his arse tipped upwards, the head of one of Sherlock's more expensive toys visibly protruding from it.

Sherlock's eyes meet Mrs. Anderson's and hers grow even larger. More hungry. Her hand has moved down to press inside her jeans, the motion making it obvious that she's getting herself off. As if she'd given him the idea- preposterous- Sherlock suddenly yanks her husband's mouth away from his shoe and pulls him upwards, forcing two of his fingers into his mouth so far it makes Anderson gag.

"Suck," he says brusquely and when the kneeling man does he smiles for his wife. Takes his wetted fingers and slides them quickly up and down his shaft, giving it a quick tug.

He's semi-hard already- the wonders of Viagra- and it doesn't take much to get him rock solid.

All he has to do is move into his mind palace and run through his client list for the next day- has he this room or the one in The Marriott for Lady Smallwood?- and he's good to go.

Once he's ready he grabs Mr. Anderson by his hair and pulls backwards, forcing his mouth open. The other man gags again but Sherlock is merciless; he simply takes himself in hand and rams his client's head downwards, cramming his prick into Anderson's waiting mouth with a small grunt.

The other man sputters, his hands scrambling on the floor as his wife lets out a hoarse cry of delight but Sherlock doesn't let up. That's not what they're paying him for.

He merely directs his eyes floor-ward again, checks that Anderson hasn't dropped his rag and elected to safe-word out.

He needn't have bothered though. Within seconds Anderson's relaxed his jaw and throat muscles, familiarity telling him what's expected. This is, after all, far from his first time on his knees in front of Sherlock Holmes. He hollows his cheeks, his tongue slipping and sliding over Sherlock's shaft in long, wet strokes, head bopping and eager in his quest to please his Master.

As he does he keeps moving his own hips, his cock hanging useless and hard as he gets someone else off.

He gives good head but then he should do, Sherlock's taught him. And since Sherlock's done him such good service then it's no small thing to grab his head, control his rhythm. To force himself deeper into his throat, to tell him that he's going to swallow everything down if and when Sherlock comes. As he grits this out he hears a strangled, sharp cry to his left: It turns out Mrs. Anderson's managed to come without any male intervention and he smiles at the thought of having one less orgasm to deliver.

He's got an appointment with Minister Worstead this afternoon and previous experience suggests he'd best keep his more… vigorous efforts for her.

Maybe it's the sound of his wife's climax, maybe it's the way Sherlock's hand rakes at his scalp but Mr. Anderson also shudders then, his hips convulsing as he comes in thick, white spurts of ejaculate. It pools on the pristine bathroom floor- it's why Sherlock chose this room- until he's essentially kneeling in a small puddle of his own cum.

Sherlock tells him this, hisses it in his ear even as he forces himself further into Anderson's mouth. The man moans, the vibration of it quaking along Sherlock's length and that's what makes him come. He feels it, feels Anderson's gagging against the onslaught of liquid and even though he pulls his cock a little back he makes the client swallow every last drop of him.

When he's done he pushes Anderson's head away. Stands and tucks himself back inside his trousers without comment. His part in all this is done-For now, at least.

He's barely even out of breath.

Anderson's still kneeling, cheek down in his own cum now. Sherlock hunts around in his trouser pocket and finds his keys, releases his client from his collar, his cuffs. His humbler.

He refuses to remove the butt-plug, that was Mrs. Anderson's idea.

"What a filthy little whore you are," he says, patting the other man's head before side-stepping him and his wife, moving through the door of the bathroom out into the wider hotel suite.

He really, really wants some fresh air now.

"Clean that mess you made up," he tosses over his shoulder. "Make sure to clean the toy and put it where your wife found it too, there's a good boy."

And he closes the door behind him against their answers, pulls out the box of sanitary wipes he keeps for these occasions. Quickly, brusquely he washes down his hands, his face. (Failure to do this always leaves him feeling sweaty and unpleasant and he refuses to think about why.)

Instead he seats himself and flicks on the telly, turns the channel to Jeremy Kyle USA. He hears the shower in the bathroom run as he does it, probably washing the evidence of his and the Andersons' previous activities away. He watches the show, the volume set low and tries to ignore the sounds when his clients start fucking in the shower. It's not that he's really surprised- they have form for it- he just wishes they weren't so bloody loud.

The sounds of moaning and splashing and slapping flesh make him curl his lip in disgust.

By the time they exit the bathroom he's grown antsy and he quickly shows them to the door, pulling out his smart-phone even as they mutter thanks and (unheard) requests for a similar appointment next month. He doesn't look at them as he closes the door. He doesn't bloody need to.

He needs to get room service into that bathroom before his 1 o'clock arrives, and it's with this thought that he moves into the suite bedroom to change.

* * *

 _Meanwhile,_

 _In An Exorbitantly Expensive Flat In Islington_

"Oh my God."

And Molly Hooper's fingers tighten into fists, her tiny, splinter of an engagement ring digging into her flesh as she does so.

She's really love to pull it off and throw it at her fiancé, but she knows from bitter experience that it doesn't easily come loose.

Instead she stares, frozen, at the tableaux in front of her: Sees her bed, unmade. Her bedroom, strewn with women's clothes which don't belong to her. She sees Tom- her fiancé, Tom- and he's staring up at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's, while he lies, splayed, between another woman's thighs-

There's something about the sight of that that hits her like a physical blow.

This woman he's in bed with- this woman he's still bloody inside, probably- is doing a decent impression of a deer caught in a car's headlights, staring at little Molly as if she were the velociraptor in Jurassic Park and she'd just figured out how a door handle works.

Molly's not sure that comparison's entirely inaccurate, and she suspects her expression says as much.

For a moment all is still, fiancée and fiancé staring at one another, tart-shagging-fiancé staring at them both. But then-

"Get out."

Molly says the words through gritted teeth, and she says them to both of the people in her bed.

Nobody watching her would dare think she's joking.

"Get out," she snaps, "Get out of my bed and out of my house, now, you, you-"

She finds she hasn't even the words to tell these people how terrible they are.

The woman at least has the courtesy to flinch and look uncomfortable, casting her gaze about the room as if to work out how she might unobtrusively gather her clothes and put them back on. There's no way that wouldn't involve a magic wand or a working friendship with the X-Men however and she thus will have to do things the old-fashioned way.

Tom, on the other hand, shows some hitherto unknown degree of bullishness, shaking his head and crossing his arms. He tries to look stern as he moves away from his lady friend and out of the bed, only to become squeamish at the thought of being naked in front of Molly- or possibly, being naked when Molly is in this mood- and instead freezing. It's rather ridiculous, watching a man try to be spectacularly superior and embarrassed at the same time.

At any other time Molly would feel sorry for him but right now not killing him is the best that she can do.

After a moment he gives up the fight. Stands awkwardly. He starts shuffling to his feet with one of the bed's pillows pressed in front of his groin, coming to a halt about three good metres out of Molly's reach and sheepishly pulling on his trousers. He has to drop the pillow to do so.

This, Molly decides, is probably a good thing.

As soon as he stands the woman in bed is spurred into action. She practically leaps to her feet and out into the kitchen, pulling on underwear and clothes as she goes. Muttering apologetically to herself and to Molly though not, the pathologist can't help but note, getting close enough to touch.

She leaves her mobile on Molly's night-stand, so great is her rush and in that moment the pathologist silently decides that the bitch is never seeing that beauty again.

Molly watches her go with an odd resignation- resignation is settling in with disheartening speed, actually- and as soon as she clears bedroom door Molly shut it quietly. Turns her attention back to Tom, still trying not to look awkward in half-closed trousers and no shoes.

He looks rather like a child caught being mischievous, his weight shifting from foot to foot, his eyes not really looking at her and for some reason that's the thing that infuriates her.

"So…" he says and clears his throat.

His gaze flashes longingly over her shoulder to the door and Molly thinks she just might have to kill him and arrange for his body to disappear down the Thames.

"So," she rejoins quietly.

The silence stretches out, but then-

"Here's what we're doing," she says.

"You're going to leave.

"You're not going to come back here.

"You're never going to touch me again.

"And you're going to bloody well ring our families and explain this because there's no way in Hell that's falling to me- Is that understood?"

She almost manages to get through this last part before she bursts into tears.


	2. The Customer Is Always Right

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO: THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT**

* * *

Tom tries to comfort her, which is the worst part about it.

Because she doesn't want him to comfort her, she wants him to have not been shagging someone else in their bed. She wants him to not have looked at her like her walking in on them was a bloody inconvenience. She wants to not know that she'll be the one who'll end up phoning around and explaining to everyone that the engagement is cancelled, she wants to not have to hear the lack of surprise in everyone's voice. She wants to not have to go through this, and not have to deal with this, and not hate someone she's known and lived with for three years, someone she was willing to marry-

So no, Tom comforting her is not something she wants, not even close.

And yet he won't stop trying to hug her, trying to touch her.

He keeps babbling about how he, "didn't want her to find out this way."

It feels as if he's running through hackneyed lines, making a show of feeling sorry when he doesn't really feel it and Molly can't help it, her reaction is visceral. She goes cold. Still.

She can't stop crying but she's stiff as a board, her face turned away from him.

Eventually Tom stops trying to comfort her.

Eventually he moves away too, gives a gusty, martyred sigh.

"Jesus Mols," he says. "You won't even let me touch you, will you?"

At the tone of his voice- the put-upon, victimised quality of it- Molly's head flicks up. She pins him with her gaze and he colours. Looks away again. He fixes his attention on her bedspread, mutters something.

"What was that?" she asks and he shrugs. Mutters something else.

Purely for the sake of hearing him Molly scoots a little closer on the bed, cocks her head to listen. He raises his hand, about to touch her again, and she stiffens.

When she does this he lets out a long, colourful string of swear words.

"For Christ's sake, Molly," he snaps. "I'm not going to do anything to you-"

She flinches at his raised voice and her stiffness gets greater. He knows that's how she reacts to stress and yet he doesn't stop, just keeps on snapping. Keeps on snarling.

This isn't the first row they've had but right now she's fairly happy to have it be their last.

"This is the problem, right here," he hisses. "This is how this happened: you and your fucking prudery. " And he rakes a hand through his hair, shakes his head sharply.

His face is turning a slightly worrying shade of purple.

"You'd think I was one of the Manson family, the way you behave," he says. "I'm not Jeffrey Dahmer. I'm not Fred bloody West. I never ask for anything you don't say you're ok with and I never even complain about the things you refuse to do. But you're so bloody frigid that you make even touching you is made into this ridiculous, massively big deal-"

Molly flinches and now it's her turn to avert her gaze; it settles on the threadbare rug tucked in front of her dresser. She can't seem to find her voice now and she loathes it.

She hates when she gets like this.

Tom glares at her, his own anger gathering steam again and launches into what she belatedly realises is a long held-in, oft internally repeated tirade.

"That's how this happened, you know," he says. "That's how I ended up doing this. I wanted someone normal, for once. Someone like everyone else. Someone without their nose so far in the air that they think their fiancé's not good enough for them-"

The words sting and at this Molly forces herself to look up. Forces herself to answer.

She really wishes the righteous indignation from when she walked in here had seen fit to hang around. No such luck, however.

"I told you that I was willing to compromise," she says numbly. "I-I tried everything you asked to do, I can't help it if I didn't like some of it-"

"Didn't like any of it, you mean."

He spits the words as if they're physical blows.

"You didn't like any of it, not even the boring, vanilla stuff everyone does. You didn't like anything. You didn't make any noise or smile or make any sort of effort at all."

Molly knows she shouldn't let them but these make her flinch again. They make her tighten in on herself. She'd thought he'd been happy, she'd thought she'd actually managed to please him… She hadn't known things were this bad, but surely it didn't have to come to this…

The silence stretches out and she hates it but she starts crying again.

This time he doesn't try to touch her and she's both relieved and disappointed by that.

"You didn't like any of it," he repeats eventually, but this time there's less anger, as if it's occurring to him what he's saying. Or maybe it's just that yelling at her makes him feel like a wanker- Molly can't be sure.

"You always seemed to be… off," he says eventually and now he sounds tired. "I tried to ignore it, but it was always there. You always- we always- you didn't-"

"You could have told me."

She says the words but even as she does she knows they're not quite true; he may not have said a word but she knew some of this already. She also knew she wasn't happy with the way things were, she'd just been happy enough with everything else to compromise. Not being all that interested in sex didn't make her a bad person, she'd mused, and so long as Tom was happy enough then she could live with that. Molly Hooper: pragmatist, that would have been her motto had anyone asked. Molly Hooper: making it work when nobody thought she could, least of all her.

But now it seems that her, her weirdness had put him off and now he'd, now he'd-

Now, she realises, he's hurt her. He's hurt her very badly.

Some part of her, some insecure, terrified, teenage part of her wants to blame herself entirely for this. After all, she knows how bad her hang-ups are. She knows how odd and fucked up she is. But as a grown woman- and one who had worked her way through medical school, to boot- she can't let herself. That wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be honest. If she and Tom were having problems then it was up to both of them to say so-

She hadn't, but neither had he, and she's not about to let him off the hook for that.

So she stands. Folds her hands in front of her. She can't make herself look up but she doesn't think she needs to right now. A strange sense of gratitude, hateful and hopeless, washes over her as she realises that it was probably best all this happened now, before they were standing in front of an altar in a dress and suit which cost more than she made in a month.

Tom's still muttering about how this is her fault but at her movement he looks up. Stops suddenly.

She senses rather than sees how still he becomes.

"I'll need to find somewhere else to live," she says, gesturing to the flat. The ridiculously expensive flat Tom's mother found them, because it's so bloody close to her and so bloody close to his job in Notting Hill. "It's a month's notice, isn't it?" He nods dumbly. "Good, then I'll give the landlord a month. By that time I'll have found somewhere else and so will you."

She takes a deep breath. Once again she wishes her anger had stayed.

"Until then… Until then I think you should stay in your father's place in Richmond."

Tom gulps.

"So that's it?" he says. "You're not going to suggest counselling or time apart, or, or something?"

There's an odd, relieved quiver to his voice that Molly really wishes she didn't understand.

Instead of making reference to it however, she merely nods her head.

"If you could do this to me then we shouldn't be married," she says quietly.

She wishes she sounded more certain, more confident, but that's not who she is.

Tom stands though, shakes his head again. Again he rakes a hand through his hair but he doesn't try to argue. Instead he nods and grabs his shirt, walks quietly past her out of the bedroom and starts shrugging it on. After a moment he skulks back in sheepishly and picks up his socks. Shoes.

Molly didn't think she would ever be capable of it, but she hates him a little, right then.

It doesn't matter though: she'll have to live with it. It's with this thought that she starts to strip the dirty bedclothes down and bundle them into her hamper. As she does so she still cries- She can't seem to stop. She doesn't make any noise when she does it.

The real sobs come when she hears the front door close.

* * *

 _Room 211_

 _The Metropole Hotel, Belgravia_

 _Two Hours Later_

"I've never done anything like this before."

And Sherlock smiles nervously, tugs at his tie.

He does his best to fold his body into an approximation of bashfulness, perched as he is on the bed's edge.

The Right Honourable Harriet Winstead, MP, lets her smile widens at his words until a saying about cats and canaries inevitably springs to mind.

The older woman sashays over to him, runs a hand down along his chest coquettishly. She's so close he can smell her perfume and her body lotion and her shampoo and none of the scents match.

It's an irritation, an itch that picks at Sherlock's brain though he tries to dismiss it.

"And what do you normally do, dear boy?" she asks, interrupting his thoughts before he can become really mired in them. (This is, he knows, probably for the best).

"What would a lovely young man like you normally do with a wicked older woman like me? Hmm?"

Sherlock makes sure to gulp. Stutter. Winstead likes her role-plays realistic and she's tedious when he breaks character. It's infinitely easier to just give her what she wants. So he starts to mumble out some nonsense, improvised on the fly of course, about how he'd ask her to dinner and compliment her because she's so very, very beautiful-

She leans down and kisses him, interrupting his recitation and stealing his breath thoroughly.

It's one thing Sherlock has to admit about this client, she knows how to get what she wants.

Still playing along he blinks up at her, letting his eyes grow wide as saucers. "You didn't have to do that," he says quietly, balling his hands into fists at his sides.

Her grin widens until it positively drips wickedness. "My dear boy," she purrs, "that's exactly why I did it."

And with that she kisses him again, hiking up the skirt of her suit and kneeling on either side of his hips. Pressing her body into his. He clasps handfuls of sheets, his nails digging in as he lets her thoroughly have her fill. She rakes at his hair- what is it with women and his curls?- tugging his head this way and that as she kisses him.

After a moment (and still in character) he allows himself to slowly, gingerly starts touching her back, her shoulders. Her arse. They're soft caresses, nothing too certain or confident.

Winstead laughs triumphantly, deep in her throat, and without any warning tips him backwards onto the bed.

Sherlock allows it to happen, of course. He allows her to control it. When he agreed to this session he agreed to the fantasy she wanted: an innocent young virgin, "without the slightest clue what goes where." The illusion might be shattered were he to start taking over so he allows the client her pleasures.

As he thinks this she slides her tongue into his mouth. He lets it tangle slickly with his. Taking the bait he chases it back into her mouth and when he does she bites down slightly, causing him to yelp. The look he shoots her this time isn't entirely an act: he's always been very clear that biting or blood-play have to be signed off on first and they cost a damn sight more than he's charging today. Besides, giving a client the idea they can go off book about those sorts of matters is, he knows from bitter experience, not a terribly clever idea-

He remembers Irene two years ago, black and blue from that job gone wrong in the Dorchester and inwardly he winces though he doesn't break character.

That, he silently vows, is never going to be him.

Fortunately, however, it appears that Winstead's not intent on pushing her luck at the moment. No, she gives another small nip at his lip, more playfully this time, and Sherlock realises that this is yet another element of her Wanton Older Woman act, something she personally finds rather forbidden or wicked. (Considering how dour her husband, Viscount Cledwin is, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised.)

So he lets out a loud moan, exclaiming breathlessly at how naughty that is, how he's ever had anyone do such a thing to him before-

She looks down at him with hooded eyes, slowly opens her shirt and pulls it off her.

There's a scrap-of-lace black bra beneath, and nothing else.

Still staring down at him she unclips her bra. Discards it. She lifts one breast in her hand, squeezing it softly before leaning down into him and placing it before his mouth. Her skin is worn and tanned but really rather lovely. Sherlock has always liked the texture of it against his lips.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks hoarsely and her eyes narrow.

She shifts so that her other hand cups him through his trousers.

"I want you to open up and suck," she says sweetly, still working him through his trousers.

The sensation of it is pleasant and he's slightly relieved that he's becoming hard.

"I want you to suckle on my tits while I get you off, you darling boy. Do you like the sound of that?"

And Sherlock nods, feigning an eagerness he doesn't feel. Suckling at her nipples and tonguing them until his jaw damn near aches. And then he lets her flip him onto his back and divest him of his clothes. Lets her slide a condom on him and fuck him until the massive, four poster bed shakes. He moans and swears and pleads and says thank you, tells her that this is what he's been waiting for, begs her to please, please, please ride him harder-

Eventually she comes, her voice rasping and low, breathless.

She laughs as she does it- But then she always does. (And it is, as always, a lovely sound).

When she catches her breath she climbs off him and puts back on her clothes. Rolls on her stockings.

There's a lightness to her step that wasn't there before.

Sherlock doesn't bother to get off the bed. He doesn't bother to see her to the door. The illusion of his being pole-axed by what she's done to him will probably earn him a very good tip next session.

When he can be certain that she's gone he stands up, heads to the shower. Turns on the hot water and lets it beat down on him, lets his mind go as blank as he can. The annoyance of those three conflicting perfumes still tugs at his brain, an itch he can't scratch, but eventually he starts running equations, working through mathematical formulae until he can let it go-

Then he exits. Dries himself. Dresses for his next appointment.

His eyes glance over the date on today's copy of _The Guardian_ and he forces himself not to note what it means.


	3. Assets Portfolio

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER THREE: ASSETS PORTFOLIO**

* * *

 _Good Godfrey's Bar,_

 _The Waldorf Hilton_

 _That Evening_

Given the day that's in it, Irene asks Sherlock to meet her for drinks that evening.

She insists that she merely wants to get a rundown on the state of her investment but Sherlock knows it's more than that. If she wanted to know how good a return he's making for her she could simply ask her banker so it's not fiscal responsibility which is driving her on, oh no. It's sentiment.

She does, after all, recognise the date and all that it means to him.

So he puts on a suit, wanders into the Waldorf Hilton to meet her. He finds her at the bar, chatting up the bartender with the sort of ease that comes from long practice. (That and a surfeit of both beauty and natural charm.)

For a moment he stands, watching her, envying the grace with which she interacts with her fellow creatures. More intuitive than he (though just as clever) she manages to make more leeway with the girl in the minute or so that he watches than he probably would have in an hour.

It's watching a master at play, is what it is, and Sherlock finds that he enjoys it.

Too soon though the bar-tender notices him, points him out to Irene with a small, slightly suspicious nod. "Someone to see you?" she asks, the question obvious in her tone.

Irene turns in her chair and offers him her trademark crooked grin. Gestures for him to join her, something he does with as much good humour as he can muster. "The gin punch, if you please, Angela," she tells the young woman before leaning over and ghosting a peck onto Sherlock's cheek.

The bar-tender looks decidedly unimpressed by this development but she says nothing.

Irene watches her sashay away, her eyes narrowed. Sherlock can't help but grin.

"Oh dear," he says. "I rather think I've spoiled your fun for the evening."

Irene shrugs, an elegant, careless gesture. It suits her. "I'm not here for pleasure, alas," she says. "I'm waiting for a client; We fly out to Kuala Lumpur tonight. Red-eye flight- Which means it's going to be ghastly."

And she gives an exaggeratedly delicate shudder. Shoots him another, smaller smile before pushing a small white envelope over the bar to him. Inside, as always, are the details of where she's going and who she'll be with, insurance if she goes missing or gets herself into mischief.

"I'll be gone for a fortnight," she's saying, "but I wanted to check in on my favourite investment before I left."

And she smiles. Pats his knee. "So how have you been, oh favourite investment?" she asks.

The playfulness in her tone masks her tension, he can tell; She's genuinely worried about his answer.

Now it's Sherlock's turn to shrug. It should be noted that his attempt is far less careless and elegant. Her words have made him feel rather… exposed.

"I'm fine," he says, because he knows that's what she wants to hear. That's always what everyone wants to hear. "The date is meaningless- There were a couple of reports in the papers, a retrospective on BBC2. Nothing extraordinary."

Nothing to remind him that this day seven years ago his world was turned upside down, he reminds himself. Nothing to signify exactly what he's lost.

Irene nods though, appearing to mull over his words. "So you've not heard from your family?" she asks quietly. "You mentioned they tried to get in touch around this time last year-"

"I've heard nothing from them," he says quickly. His voice comes out more sharply than he'd like. "Not that that's surprising."

And he looks away, his gaze falling on the mirror behind the bar. A man looks back at him, a thin creature with a shock of dark curls and a false, sharp smile. It takes him a moment, as it always does, to recognise that it's him. That he's alive and healthy and in a beautiful room with a beautiful woman, not lying on his back and lost in some filthy doss-house in Peckham.

His brother's face blooms behind his eyes and it is only with great difficulty that he manages to force the image away.

When he looks back at Irene though her expression is knowing. Sympathetic. Rather than dwell on it he looks around, catches the bar-tender's eye. She's chatting with whoever's on bar-back, dawdling over bringing Irene her drink.

This is why one should never annoy those who are in charge of one's access to alcohol, he muses.

At realising she's been caught she flushes slightly guiltily and hurries over. Places a teapot and two cups beside he and Irene before scurrying away. Irene smiles- "Shall I be mother?"- and lifts the pot, pours liquid into both cups.

"What's this?" Sherlock asks, rather than comment on his little outburst.

Irene, ever the hostess, smiles mysteriously. "Hot rum punch," she says. "Speciality of the house. It's delicious- And it has a mule's kick, which I rather thought might prove necessary." She's filled his cup to the brim. "Work away on that, there's a good boy."

And she pushes the cup across the bar to him, smiling in encouragement; It doesn't happen often, but Sherlock feels a twinge of regret for his behaviour.

She is, he knows, only trying to be a friend to him in the best way she knows how.

So he inclines his head, wrinkles his nose as he takes a comically-exaggerated sniff. She snorts in amusement and he smiles. Takes a sip. It's warm, sweet. Spicy. The jab of the alcohol is instant and he coughs, trying to cover it though she looks rather amused.

"You weren't joking about the kick," he says.

Irene holds up her cup in toast. "Darling boy," she says severely, "I never joke about the kick."

"I shall have to remember that." And Sherlock clinks his glass to her, nods. He has so few friends, he reminds himself, he shouldn't alienate the paltry amount left in his corner. "To Kuala Lumpur, Ms. Adler," he says.

"To my favourite investment, Mr….Scott," she toasts back.

She knows better than to use his real name in public.

They sit and drink in a companionable silence, the sounds of the bar a soothing camouflage around them; When they've finished they order another, and another after that. Irene's appointment arrives promptly at ten and she disappears, a swish of white silk and diamonds whose trajectory is noted by everyone in the room-

It seems so much emptier when she leaves.

Sherlock sits at the bar until long after she must have disappeared, the rum cup growing cold in his hand, thinking about a day seven years ago. It feels, at the risk of being maudlin, like a lifetime ago. A lifetime he resolutely does not wish to remember. For a moment he allows himself to pull out his mobile phone. Look at the screen. There's a text from his mother, unopened. Unasked for.

He deletes it without hesitation.

He tells himself it's like any other day, and in that way, it absolutely is.

It's tomorrow that's going to prove note-worthy, though he doesn't know it yet.

* * *

 _Meanwhile,_

 _At the (aptly-named) Bleeding Heart Tavern_

 _Clerkenwell_

Molly could be mistaken, but she thinks Meena is offering to have Tom assassinated.

Or castrated.

Or possibly shipped off to join the French Foreign Legion. She's not really sure.

(Truth be told, after the first seven gin and tonics it gets difficult to tell what anyone's saying, even your best friend. Or maybe, particularly your best friend.)

After all, Meena is the one who introduced her and Tom four years ago, and Meena was the one who suggested they move in together. Meena even offered them her soon-to-be-former-husband's summer home in Croatia as a honeymoon destination and she helped pick out Molly's wedding dress, her own maid of honour suit and the bridesmaid's gowns. Now that the wedding's off, Molly suspects that she's feeling guilty for the part she played in introducing her best friend to her "scumbag, cheating ex," and she's acting out because of it.

Molly really wishes she could get behind her mate's vitriol, but she's honestly too drained to do anything except drink morosely and listen to Meena vent.

"I mean who does the bastard think he is?" Meena's demanding. "What makes him think he has the right to fuck around on you? You?" She shakes her head, leaning in as if imparting some great secret. "I mean, you're, you're like, you're like the loveliest person who's ever lived, is what you are," she's saying. "I always assumed that small, cartoon bluebirds wake you up and plait your hair every morning, you're so adorable."

And she grins drunkenly.

Molly, not knowing quite how to respond to that, elects to say nothing at all.

"Fuck him anyway, Mols," Meena says with a definitive nod of her head when she realises her friend won't respond. "You're better off without the prick, you mark my words."

And she grins even more brightly, throws more of her drink back.

A slightly glassy shimmer has come into her eyes.

Molly signals the barman to indicate she shouldn't be served anything else and he nods. No shit, he mouths to her, even as he shoots her a flirtatious smile.

She wishes she had it in her to smile back but she does not.

Instead she picks up her drink, downs the last of it and checks her mobile for the time. It's nearly midnight. Time to go. "Come on," she says, beginning to gather her things. "Finish that up, it's late and we've both got work tomorrow-"

Meena makes a face. Crosses her arms. "No, you don't," she pouts. "And neither do I."

Molly knows this argument well, they've been playing it since their university days. "Yes, we both do," she says in her best impression of a stern voice.

It has the effect it normally has on Meena, namely zero.

"Nope!" she grins. "I'm off and you're going to call in sick," she tells her. "We're going to find another bar and we're going to find you another bloke and-"

Alarm goes through Molly. "I don't want another bloke," she says, the words coming out more sharply than she intended.

Meena throws her a frown so quizzical that any other time it would be hilarious.

"What do you mean you don't want someone else?" she demands. She leans into Molly again, lowers her voice to a theatrically loud whisper. "Molly," she says severely. "The best way to get over someone is to get under someone, everyone knows that…"

It is only with great difficulty that Molly restrains herself from rolling her eyes.

Trust Meena to assume that sex would be the fix for everything, she thinks darkly.

Some of this must show on her face because, plastered as she is, understanding moves through Meena's expression. It is quickly and mortifyingly followed by pity.

"Oh no, Mols," she says. "That isn't what caused this, is it? You and your…" She clears her throat, makes a further, belated effort to lower her voice. "Your problem?"

"It's not a problem."

Again the words come out sharper than she intended. She speaks so loudly that the barman's head flicks up, doubtless expecting a fight to break out, and instantly her face goes red. Rather than try to explain to him she picks up her bag, takes Meena by the elbow and pulls her to her feet.

The other woman knocks back the last of her gin and tonic defiantly before stumbling away from the bar.

"We're not having this conversation here," Molly hisses as she moves. "And certainly not when you're in this state-"

"What state am I in?" Meena demands as she hauls her through the crowd. "What state do you think I'm in, that you're dragging me about like, like-"

"Like a drunk who needs to be taken home?" Molly asks tartly, finally managing to clear the room and pull her friend out into the cool, fresh evening air.

She has to keep a good grip on Meena for fear she'll fall over.

Her friend stares at her with drunken, calf-like eyes and there it is again, that pity. There's always so much pity, that's why Molly never bloody talks about sex with anyone. "I thought you'd gotten over it," Meena says quietly, and now she sounds… She sounds contrite.

Molly closes her eyes, squeezes the bridge of her nose: If there's one thing she can't handle right now, it's a contrite Meena.

And by the look on her friend's face, she knows it.

A long, uncomfortable beat.

"I didn't get over it," she says quietly. "I just thought… I just thought I'd learned to muddle through. That Tom was happy enough with me, and if he was happy enough then I wasn't willing to rock the boat."

Meena narrows her eyes, frowning. "So, you didn't mind the sex being shite because you loved the bastard?" she asks with the sort of guileless lack of tact only the truly drunk can pull off.

This time Molly does roll her eyes. She can't help it.

"No," she says. "I didn't love the bastard." Having walked away from him without a word, Molly can finally allow the truth of that statement: She hadn't loved Tom. "I just wanted…" She puffs out a huff of breath, not sure how to put this. "I wanted a family," she says eventually. "A home. Kids and someone to grow old with. And Tom fit the bill, shite sex and all, so I said yes.

It's not a crime, you know, being willing to settle."

She sighs.

"Though God knows, everybody acts like it is."

"Yeah, they do." Meena nods slowly. Leans in and wraps her arm around her friend. It's 90% hug and 10% trying not to fall over in her heels. For a moment she and Molly are all of eighteen again, alone and away from home for the first time in their lives.

Molly fancies it makes them both feel better.

"That's shitty, that you felt you had to do that," Meena says softly.

Molly shrugs. "Would've been fine if it had worked," she points out. "Pity it didn't."

Meena looks at her curiously. "You just said you didn't love the git: That wouldn't have been fine." She shakes her head. It sounds like she's sobering up, just a little.

Molly's not sure she really wants her to, not yet.

"Besides, this isn't the fifties," she continues. "We're not our mothers: They put up with that sort of bollocks, we shouldn't have to." And she releases Molly, crosses her arms stubbornly. Molly sighs again. She knows the beginning of an argument when she hears it, and she's had this argument with herself and others plenty of times through the years. It's never changed a thing about what she is, what she wants. It never will. Maybe she's frigid or maybe she's broken or maybe, maybe she's just a bit different: who can say?

What she does know is that there's not a man alive out there who'd put up with her as she is, she knows that now.

Best she start making her peace with the information. So-

"Let's go home, MeeMee," she says, using the old school nickname that always makes Meena smile. It works; Her friend leans into her again, her statement forgotten- Oh, the miracle that is gin- as she pulls out her purse. Sticks out an arm and hails a taxi.

The first two drive right by her but the third one stops.

"Come back to mine," she tells her as she hops in. "Tuck me in. Maria's made up the guest room, you can sleep there."

There's a light in Meena's eyes now, a light Molly doesn't rightfully trust. A light which seems… knowing? Mischievous, maybe. It's a light that accompanied more university-days misbehaviour than she cares to recall. But she doesn't want to seem rude and besides, her place is on the other side of the city.

Meena actually lives closer to her job than she does, something which will make her commute tomorrow a bit easier.

So she agrees. Gets into the car. Her friend falls asleep about two seconds after they take off and she has to kick her to wake her up when they reach the faux-Ikea monstrosity in which Meena currently resides. The doorman helps her get Meena in, holding open the door as Molly huffs her across the threshold.

She drops her into her own bed and trundles up the stairs to the guest room, strewing the ground with clothes and belongings as she goes.

She thinks she could sleep forever.

Unfortunately for all concerned, however, she leaves Meena in possession of her mobile and that will be the cause of more trouble than she yet knows.


	4. Fit for Purpose

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR: FIT FOR PURPOSE**

* * *

 _Meena Ramadarthy's- Soon To Be Chadha's- Flat_

 _The Wee Small Hours of The Morning_

Molly's going to love this.

And Meena frowns drunkenly, focussing on her phone. She's pulled up her contacts and is desperately scrolling down to find- Aha! There he is.

William Scott, the only male escort on Ms. Adler's website, and the only male escort Meena's actually used thus far.

He was worth every penny.

With this in mind she clicks on his photo, pulling up his contact details. That handsome, angular face appears, right along with his professional email and the usual request-an-appointment form. Meena scrolls through the onscreen options, going from a one hour appointment to "specialist services." From there she clicks onto another list, going from "role-play," to "discipline," to "blood-play."

She settles on the final option- "multiple-day immersive play." It's the most expensive.

She doesn't care, if it helps her friend.

And besides, she'd rather spend it on this than give her darling Arjun the satisfaction of spending it on one of his girlfriends. The divorce should become final any day now so her window of opportunity for fucking him over is now (lamentably) small.

With this in mind she fills out the form, gives her account details. She includes a note that this is a gift, asks Will to contact Molly to discuss what might work best for her. She includes a photo of her friend and an email, asks him to get in touch as soon as possible.

Money is no object, she says, before signing off on the form and hitting "send."

As soon as the message thanking her for her inquiry appears she goes offline. She's feeling the effects of tonight's… excesses and she really thinks she should get to bed. So off she trundles, delighted with her answer to Molly's troubles, certain she's doing what's best for her-

She wakes in the morning with a hangover, blissfully unaware of what she did just hours before and runs out to work.

* * *

 _Sherlock Holmes' flat, Montague Street_

 _The Even Wee-er, Smaller Hours of the Morning_

Sherlock's phone beeps and he pretends it woke him. (It didn't).

He rolls over onto his back, opens the message. Anything would be better than continuing to think on the things that have plagued his rest thus far. It's from a sometimes-client, Meena something or other. She wants to give the gift of decent fucking to a friend and she says that money's no object.

Having met Meena, Sherlock believes her.

Half asleep, he looks at the photo she's sent, notes this friend's pretty face, small frame. Her eyes are dark and large, searching, and just for a moment they hold his attention. They're… gentle. Oddly gentle.

Immediately he berates himself for so unprofessional a thought.

So he types off his usual, rote reply, gives her the only slot he has open this week, an initial meeting tomorrow near his place of business. If Meena's friend wants it then it's hers. If not… Well, that's her loss. He's made sure he's busy all week, given his circumstances and he's sure he can find someone else to take her place.

Even if he can't, the food at Berrocca is divine.

His professional emails are set to a template so he doesn't have to add the images separately or anything, he just needs to hit send. He does so before tossing the phone aside, curling up on his side in frustration.

When he closes his eyes his brother's behind them, though he doesn't want to think of him.

Purely for something else to picture, he remembers those odd, quiet eyes of Meena's friend and for some reason they calm him. Soothe him. He won't let himself think about why, not even in the wee small hours of the morning.

Maybe it's just been too long a time since he noticed anything of interest about a client.

Strange to relate though, he falls asleep shortly thereafter. And for the first time in a long time, he's not plagued by either memories or dreams.

* * *

 _Meena's flat_

 _The Great Big Hours of the Afternoon_

Molly awakes the next day with a terrible hangover. Pounding head, sick stomach, shaking hands, the works.

Her alarm didn't wake her like it usually does and she suspects it might be later than is helpful, should she wants to get to work on time. If she didn't feel so wretched, she's sure she'd really care. As she thinks this she stretches slowly, listening for the usual sounds of Hurricane Meena getting ready for work but she hears nothing. No doors slam, no fire alarm goes off as her friend once again burns her toast or, if she's on a health kick, her porridge.

No, the house is eerily empty.

The only sounds are the whisper of the traffic and the wind outside. Tree branches from the communal green space behind her friend's apartment slap against her window, tossed in the breeze. It feels rather like being stuck in a Hammer Horror movie. As Molly peeks out the bedroom window she realises that the day is grey, chill, and entirely depressing. It's only late September, but it looks more like January.

She frowns at the thought, tries to sit up and turn her phone on.

It takes two tries of her PIN- stupid hangover!- before she succeeds and the damn thing lights up.

The mobile buzzes, her notifications for the morning popping up. The first is a text from Meena, dated to nine this morning.

She managed to get out of bed, the bint.

 _Hey sleepyhead,_ it reads _, I called you in sick to Bart's: they're not expecting you. Lie back. Order ridiculously expensive take-away. Open every wine bottle in the flat- You deserve it. Oh, and ogle my next door neighbour. Stellan does his yoga outside around 12. I think he might be allergic to t-shirts: You be the judge._

 _I'll be home around 6pm, see you then. Xx MC_

On reading this Molly flops back in bed. Though she's angry about her friend going over her head to Bart's, Molly supposes she can live with it. She hasn't had a sick day in three years, she has plenty of leave accrued. And at least she's out of her flat and away from all its reminders of Tom, something for which she is rather grateful-

She's staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell she's going to do with herself now she's single when the alert for an email pings on her phone.

She frowns. Picks it up and opens it. It's probably from work, she thinks.

Sighing, she scrolls down, finds the message. It's from a username and domain she doesn't recognise, normally a good indication of spam, but the subject line mentions her by name and Meena. It also mentions a gift.

That's rather exact, Molly thinks, for a bot or a troll.

So she clicks open the email cautiously, hoping it doesn't contain some sort of virus. She has enough bloody trouble, without having to buy a new phone.

What she sees however, confuses the Hell out of her.

For there's a photo of a man inside. He's tall, slimly built, with a rake of shaggy, dark curls that make him look vaguely like a Byronic hero- Or the new Q from James Bond. He's wearing a charcoal grey three piece suit and a pale purple shirt; the photo shows him in profile, one eyebrow cocked, a small, knowing little smile ticking his lip crookedly upwards.

Molly has to admit it, he's absolutely gorgeous.

She also has to admit that she has no bloody idea who he is.

There's a jpeg underneath his photo; it shows a business card, the name William Scott printed in raised silver script. There's an email and a work number too, as well as a small cursive motto, also written in silver: _Sciendum dum vapulat_ it reads.

Molly did Latin in school, tries to translate it. One should know when one is beaten, she thinks that's what it says and for some reason it makes her shiver. Blush.

Sister Mary Ignatius never wrote anything like that on the blackboard.

She looks back at the photo of the man and she can't help it, the blush gets worse. There's something about the look in his eye, it's like he's staring right at her right through the computer screen. It's delicious- Delicious and unnerving. Being the sort of person everyone's eye usually glosses over, that sense of being seen feels… odd to Molly. Unreal.

Though it's completely absurd she slouches down in the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as if he could actually peer through the phone screen at her.

It is, she must admit, one of the more ridiculous things she's done this week.

Not to be deterred though, she skims down to the body of the email. She spies an address for a restaurant near Bart's, a notification that a reservation has been made for 3pm under the name William Scott though Meena's paying. Wine will be ordered, if she wishes; She must dress formally or she will not be allowed in. If she's running late she should let the restaurant know as getting a table for lunch is bloody difficult-

 _I look forward to seeing you,_ the email finishes _. We have a lot to discuss before we finalise our arrangement. Feel free to ask me anything you like- Rest assured, I'm not easily shocked._

 _Regards, Will_

Molly stares at the email, uncertain, for what feels like an hour before she forces herself out of bed. She hops into Meena's shower and then puts on the kettle to make coffee. (There's no way she's asking her friend what she's been up to without some caffeine in her veins.)

When she's ready she pulls out her phone, calls Meena. The call goes to voice mail, so she has to text her.

Meena, she writes, who's Will and why's he asking me for lunch at Barracca?

Oh, and how does he have my email address?

It takes an hour for her friend to get back to her and when she does the message is not encouraging.

 _Oh_. It says.

 _Oh. Shit._

"Oh shit, indeed," Molly mutters, recognising the beginning of one of Meena's epic, you-can't-be-mad-at me-you-love-me stories.

She has that sinking, familiar feeling that she'll be recounting this story to a therapist one day.

So she dries her hair, tries to get over her hangover as she waits for her friend to get out of Chambers and call her back. This doesn't happen. She tries ringing the restaurant but they don't pick up and even the number this Will person sent on his business card goes straight to voice-mail.

Eventually she can't wait any longer, she sneaks into Meena's massive closet and pulls out a dress and shoes, manages to make herself look presentable before she hops onto the tube and makes her way to Barbican station. All the way there she silently rehearses how she's going to strangle her best friend when she gets her hands on her, how she's going to apologise to this Will person for having been set up by an idiot who still can't apparently hold her liquor-

This plan lasts approximately the length of time it takes her to get into the restaurant and see the man waiting for her.

It lasts about as long as it takes this man to look up and smile.

It's a cool, detached thing, that smile, but there's something about it… There's something about it that Molly finds fascinating.

It's so long since she's found anything fascinating.

She stumbles over to the table, mumbling apologies about being late and for the first time since they were kids she finds herself wondering whether she really does owe Meena a drink.


	5. Upselling

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE: UPSELLING**

* * *

 _Sherlock's Usual Table,_

 _Club Gascon,_

 _West Smithfield_

There's a certain type of woman who makes use of Sherlock's… skill set.

She is usually older. Confident. In possession of enough money to make visiting him a charming way to wile away an hour or two. She will have a husband who may or may not know what she gets up to when he's not about; She will be a leader of business, or a policy-maker, or a powerful player in the creative industries. Sometimes she'll be all three. She will certainly feel herself to be in the right, at peace with her decision to meet him and eager to find out what comes next when one procures a professional of his calibre-

It is obvious within moments of his laying eyes on her however, that Molly Hooper is not one of these women.

And he doesn't know why, but he finds the thought really rather… alarming.

Because he can hear his guest coming before he sees her; She trips up every step and over every waiter on her way to his table. She keeps up a mumbling, quiet apology as she does it, something which the maitre d clearly finds disconcerting. He keeps trying to reassure her that everything is fine, much to the amusement of his staff and the other patrons.

The self-consciousness which this elicits in her is rather obvious, Sherlock can't help but note.

The redness in her cheeks and at the back of her neck suggests the sort of timidity with which he has absolutely no idea how to deal.

When she finally skids to a halt before his table she stops and stares at him, eyes wide, her attraction as obvious as if she were wearing a giant neon sign over her head. In fact the (now puce) blush which paints her pale cheek is more lurid in its protestations than any glaring flashbulbs could be.

The obviousness of her appreciation makes him feel ever so slightly uncomfortable- _**Why?** -_ and for the first time in years he is tempted to shift in his seat. To fidget.

Those big, gentle eyes seem larger and darker this morning than they did last night in her photo.

Their eyes meet, brown to blue, and in what Sherlock would bet is an entirely unconscious move her tongue darts out to stroke her lip. On his noticing this, she further embarrasses herself by biting it. The action is surprisingly… distracting.

He does not, as a rule, like his clients to be distracting.

She stares at him some more, still calf-eyed, casting about clearly for some way to begin their conversation. Once, twice, she opens her mouth but not a sound comes out. She looks rather like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck and immediately Irene's First Rule of Engagement pops into his head: Take control, if she won't, he hears her say.

One of you bloody well has to.

So he clears his throat, stands and extends his hand out to hers to shake. He wants to make contact before she gets herself entirely into a state (he suspects that she's the sort to do that).

The feel of her fingers in his sends a most unexpected jolt down his spine but he covers it. Calm, he reminds himself. Confident. She may be an unknown quantity right now but she soon won't be. So-

"Molly," he says warmly instead, gesturing to her seat, "so lovely to finally meet you- I must admit I was getting worried."

And he nods to the maitre d, hands him back his menu. "We'll start with the scallops in sake and watermelon," he says with the finality he usually uses with clients; It feels soothing to him, a practiced move.

It smoothes out the edge of his discomfort, his taking charge of the ordering.

This client is not apparently impressed, however; With a blink she quietly requests a look at the menu, tells the maitre d that she's perfectly capable of making her own choice but would love a diet coke while she thinks it over.

"Ice, no lemon," she says quietly.

The older man looks at a surprised Sherlock who nods- "Whatever the lady likes,"- before placing Sherlock's old menu in her hands and hurrying off to the kitchen to place her drinks order. A moment later he reappears, pops her drink on the table and immediately scurries off again.

A beat of silence stretches out.

Sherlock watches Molly as she reads through the menu, trying to get a feel for who she is and what she might want. What she might want from him. With an entirely new client one can never tell and her (obviously borrowed) dress and shoes gives him little to work with, other than the realisation that she's sporting a massive hangover. That, and that she's had some recent upset- She hasn't slept properly in a couple of days and hangovers don't last that long. It's not a bereavement, he thinks, she wouldn't be here if it was, but it is something-

He's so busy trying to piece it together that he almost misses when she speaks.

"I don't like having people order for me… Will," she says quietly. Though the words sound assertive the tone is apologetic. He barely hears them.

She bites her lip again and again he finds it bloody distracting.

What in heaven's name is wrong with him today?

But Sherlock shrugs. Dismisses it. "I'm very good at guessing things," he says smoothly, letting just the right hint of innuendo slip into his voice. He has a job to do, after all. "You would have enjoyed the dish I ordered: My powers of deduction are among my more attractive features, you know."

And he shoots her the Client Grin, this sharp monstrosity which he only uses when dealing with those he's working for.

As it always does, he makes him feel a little… hollowed out. Uncomfortable. But he still bloody well does it.

A boy's got to pay the rent, etc., etc., etc.

She greets it with a cocked eyebrow however. A smile. "Among your more attractive features?" she inquires with the mild sort of wryness which he finds he rather likes in Irene.

Now that **is** a disconcerting mental link to have made, he muses.

"Oh, yes." He nods. Leans in closer. It's time to try his usual opening gambit: bluntness. "Of course, my filthy imagination and deviant tendencies are by far my most attractive features-" he leans in, the words breathed right into her ear- "but one doesn't like to take those out in public, now does one?"

He gives a low bark of laughter.

"Although, looking at you… Maybe you would."

And he makes a show of looking her over, allows his smile to become more lewd. More lascivious. He finds that clients tend to like that too, almost as much as his ordering for them.

For a moment he stares, waiting for her to answer him, to become shocked or aroused or, or something. But she just continues to look at him, one eyebrow cocked, until-

"I think you need to work on your material," she says in that same, quiet voice she used before, only now she's fixed her eyes on her menu.

Pinkness has started swarming at her cheeks again, but it's not arousal. Oh no. Sherlock rather thinks it's… It's embarrassment.

 _Oh._

 ** _Oh._**

 _Oh dear_ , he thinks. _Slight miscalculation there. Not really the sort of thing a woman pays you for, now is it?_

He tries to think of a way to backtrack which won't make him sound clumsy or stupid or unprofessional. He's not made that obvious a misstep in years and he'd prefer not to give an encore. But he's also well aware that he's selling a package and that package includes suaveness and charm and machismo and (importantly) the ability to not fit his entire foot into his mouth and continue speaking-

Maybe it shows on his face- mortifying thought- because something soft moves through her expression and she reaches out. Takes his hand.

"Hey," she says. "You don't need to get upset: I'm sure that sounded a lot better in your head." Her lips tilt up in a small smile. "Stuff like that always sounds better in mine," she adds morosely. "It's only when you say it out loud that you feel like a pillock."

And she takes an apparently-fortifying sip of her coke.

She swigs the damn thing as if it were whiskey.

Sherlock's not sure what's more mortifying, that she feels the need to reassure him or that he actually finds he likes it but nevertheless he nods. Tries to pull himself together.

Christ, man, he thinks, you're acting like some fumbling amateur. Get your bloody act together.

So he nods again. Clears his throat again. It feels awkward and he hates feeling awkward, absolutely hates it. Since she's elected to be forgiving about it though he gives her a small smile- not his Client Smile, his own one, it happens before he catches himself- and pours himself some water.

Her eyes flicker somewhat longingly over to the bottle of pinot noir he ordered and is allowing to breathe.

"Would you-?" he asks and gestures to the bottle.

He'd rather like some himself.

"Oh, Christ yes," she mutters and this time he laughs, again his own laugh. The realisation is rather dismaying. He tries to keep, in as much as is possible, a wall between how he behaves before his clients and how he behaves for himself; It would seem he finds this separation of church and state rather difficult when in this woman's presence, however.

The thought, as so much else today, makes him rather uncomfortable.

So he pours himself a generous glass of wine, pours one for Molly to match it. As he does the maitre d pops back and Molly orders the lamb in vermouth before taking another long sip of wine. She shoots him a nervous little look over the rim of her glass; That awkward silence plays out again as Sherlock tries to work out a battle plan for how to get this woman on track-

"So, what has Meena told you about me?" she asks.

The words are directed into her wine-glass but he hears them.

"Nothing," Sherlock answers honestly, happy that she's willing to open the conversation up. Now they can make some progress. And maybe his foot can move out of his mouth.

After all, he can't imagine it's comfortable in there.

Her head flips up though, eyebrows arched in surprise. "Nothing?" she asks. "Then why did you agree to meet me here? Did you just like the look of me or something?"

And she frowns, obviously confused. He can practically see the wheels in her head turning, a great deal more quickly than he might have guessed. She's starting to look put out, as if reflecting upon Meena's motives or his own is not a pleasant thought and Sherlock feels a sudden great, dark well of misgiving begins welling up within him. Because-

"Wait, you think Meena gave me your contact details?" he asks.

She nods guilelessly and it's only several years' of elocution lessons and a lifetime of manners which prevent him from beginning to swear. Loudly. Colourfully.

A private education should be good for something.

"So you have no idea what I do for a living?" he asks and again she nods, again guilelessly.

This time it's him who takes a bloody long sip of his wine.

"What is it?" she asks. "Is everything alright… Will? Is it?"

He nods, trying to corral his thoughts. He's not in the business of announcing what he does for a living to random strangers in restaurants: It's not like his profession is exactly legal, now is it? And he's not even sure how the woman in front of him will take it; suddenly the reticence, the shyness, mannerisms which he had assumed were at least slightly for show, make sense.

She thinks, he realises, that this is a date.

She thinks, he realises, that her friend set them up together.

No wonder she wants to know what he's been told about her.

"Oh," he says quietly. "Oh, bugger."

Molly's eyes widen at the profanity and he takes another sip of wine, smaller this time, before leaning over the table and gesturing for her to do the same. Though she looks surprised she does as he asks, ducking her head to pick up his words.

"I'm afraid there's been a bit of a misunderstanding," he says quietly. She opens her mouth to question him but he rushes on with nary a pause. "What precisely has Meena told you about me?"

She shrugs, lowers her voice to match his. "She didn't tell me anything. I got your email and I realised she must have set us up- She's got a history of doing that. It was like her other subject of study at uni. And she's the only person I know who'd know someone like you. Well, someone like you who isn't a doctor."

He cocks an eyebrow, inexplicably stung. "Someone like me," hmm?"

Again she colours, her gaze tilting down towards the tabletop. "You know," she says nervously. "Someone… handsome. Posh. With the sort of job that means he has a business-card- Which he feels so proud of that he puts a picture of it into an email to you."

As Sherlock grimaces she rushes onwards.

"Which is… There's nothing wrong with being proud of what you do and knowing you're handsome. Nothing at all. I'm not trying to- I don't mean to imply-" She runs out of breath, has to take some in.

"I think you were right a minute ago," she says eventually. "'Oh bugger', is definitely the phrase."

And she takes another quick sip of her wine, her face now positively scarlet. Sherlock reaches out, presses his hands flatly onto the tabletop, surprised by how discomfited all this is making him. It is, he suspects, entirely the fault of the woman opposite him.

She seems to have a talent for setting him off-kilter.

But he hasn't the time to reflect on why that might be right now; He has to make sure this goes no further. Yes, he could well fake things and have Meena pick up the tab but he's not nearly bastard enough to do that- And if such a scenario is what Meena meant when she requested a multi-day role play she should damn well have explained that to him before she sent him here.

So he clears his throat, goes through what he needs to tell Molly. He wants her to take the news well but he's not holding out much hope.

"Ms. Molly Hooper," he says stiffly, "I regret to inform you that you have been brought here under false pretences."

Her eyes flash up to his but he keeps speaking. He doesn't want to stop until he gets to the end.

"Your friend, Meena, requested I meet with you," he says. "Not because she thought we would be a good match but because she's used my services before and I assume she wanted you to have the same experience.

"That she did not explain this to you is something she and I will be having a long conversation about."

Molly opens and closes her mouth like a fish's but nothing comes out.

"You see, I am a professional… companion," he adds this last, unsure what else to call himself. Whore? Prostitute? Sex-Worker? He's fairly sure they would all make this woman faint. "I charge a great deal of money for my time and my expertise, money which your friend is happy to spend on me in order for you to enjoy my services too.

"It would just appear that she hasn't done either of us the courtesy of actually explaining that to you."

And he inclines his head sharply. Rests his hands on the table with what he hopes is a most dismissive and stern gesture.

If she gets upset he is genuinely not sure what he'll do.

"So you're- So you're-" For a moment it seems she won't be able to make herself finish the sentence but then- "So you're a… gigolo of some sort? An escort?"

She whispers the words as if afraid that they'll bite her.

Now it's his turn to shrug. "Both of those words imply a lack of professionalism I'm uncomfortable with," he says sharply. "I don't sell my time or my company, I sell my skill-set."

"Your skill-set?" she asks and he nods. "And what skill-set would that be?"

"I tie people up," he says stiffly. "I beat them- If they want me to. I engage in sexual role-play and bondage. I'm a switch- that means I'm willing to act as both dominant and submissive partner, though domming is by far my most common request. If you can imagine it, I've probably given it a go- I become what I'm paid to be and I am, I can assure you, unbelievably bloody good at it."

As he says the words his voice gets faster, sharper.

He has the oddest feeling he's losing control but it's been so long since he explained himself that he supposes he shouldn't be surprised.

"So you're- You're-"

"I'm a whore, darling."

The words come out with a taste of bitterness to them, a taste he hasn't felt in years. He hates the feeling that he's explaining himself: who is she to demand this of him?

And why is he bloody well telling her?

"So you have sex with people for money?" she supplies, her voice still low, her tone more careful. She has, apparently, seen his upset and noted it.

She's trying to placate him now, he thinks, and he would really rather she did not.

"I have sex with people for a fuck-load of money, pardon my French," he says sharply. "That's why I'm here: Your friend Meena was willing to pay me to have sex with you."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he starts, realising how they sound. He's gotten better with his social calibration over the years, he can usually tell when he's said something less than helpful now and he can't imagine this timid, shy little woman liked hearing that.

But though he's inwardly cursing his tongue, Molly doesn't appear to be bothered.

In fact, she looks downright intrigued.

"So Meena was willing to pay you for several sessions?" she asks. He nods.

"And you do whatever the person paying asks you to do?" Again he nods.

"Within reason," he points out. "Some things cost more, and there are some things I won't do. It's… A man must have his boundaries."

"I imagine so." Molly nods, thoughtful. She taps her lip, eyes narrowing as she looks at him and then, without warning, she reaches over and pours him some more wine. The gesture is pleased, harried. She smiles a little and it's not aimed at him, it's a thing entirely for herself.

He looks at her with raised eyebrows.

"Tell me more about this "skill set," of yours, Mr. Scott," she says and with that, as if by magic, both their dishes arrive.


	6. Human Resources

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX: HUMAN RESOURCES**

* * *

 _Sherlock's Usual Table,_

 _Club Gascon,_

 _West Smithfield_

The next forty minutes are not at all what Sherlock expected when he first met his client.

Indeed, the last time he was grilled so thoroughly about his practices, Irene was interviewing him about becoming a full partner.

This is, in an odd way, a bit more daunting.

For Ms. Hooper leans in close, asks her questions quietly. There's an…. eagerness in her, mixed in with her shyness, and Sherlock doesn't quite know what to make of it. There are some clients who adore filthy talk, who take a prurient delight in his describing debauchery, but she does not seem to be one of those.

No, rather she seems relieved, as if she's finally allowed to ask questions on a test she'll have to take tomorrow and which her teacher has repeatedly been ignoring. Hence-

"Do you take male and female clients?" she asks him, to which the answer is yes, he does.

He just tends to be a bit pickier about the men he'll sleep with than the women- Having a six foot rugby international turn on you during belt play is dicier than having a five foot nothing trophy wife do the same thing.

She merely nods at this piece of information, as if it were eminently sensible- Which it is.

"Do you take care of your health, have regular check-ups for STDs?" she asks, for which the answer is yes- he's not a bloody moron- and if she wishes to spend any time with him she's going to have to provide proof of a clean bill of sexual health.

She'll also have to be ok with his using condoms, and does she mind if he asks whether she's on the Pill?

She nods- "I'm not a bloody moron,"- and he smiles, again his own smile.

When he does this she bites her lip, blushes and again it occurs to him how potentially disruptive it might be, having a client he finds so distracting.

"So we're neither of us simpletons," he says, pushing the thought away, and she laughs.

She has a nice laugh, he can't help but think. Soft and warm.

"I wouldn't go that far," she retorts. She takes another sip of her wine, her gaze for a moment seeming to turn inward but just as quickly she's back with him again.

"Sorry," she says at his raised eyebrow. "It's been a weird couple of days."

"How so?"

He could kick himself; treating a client as if they're a personal acquaintance is, Irene has always impressed upon him, distinctly unwise. And yet, the words are out of his mouth before he thinks them through.

Worse, he actually wants to know and if that doesn't send up a professional red-flag then nothing should.

She shrugs though, toys with the stem of her wine-glass.

"You don't have to tell me," he says once the silence has stretched out for a moment longer than is comfortable but instantly she smiles tiredly. Looks back at him.

"It's not that," she says. "It's just… you'll be the first person I've told, except for Meena." She takes what appears to be a fortifying sip of pinot noir. The next words are addressed to the table top. "It makes it real, saying it out loud," she mutters. "I say it to you and it's actually true. It's actually happened. But I suppose that shouldn't stop me, so…"

And she takes a deep breath. Looks up at him. She's gone rather pale.

"I've just dumped my fiancé," she says quietly. "I caught him shagging someone else."

Well, Sherlock thinks, that does put rather another spin on things.

He should have seen it earlier, he berates himself, but then there's always something he misses.

"And is that the reason you want to see me?" he asks carefully.

He really rather hopes it is; revenge shagging is the sort of thing he handles well. This soft, gentle woman seeing him for anything else might get him into decidedly unprofessional waters, even he can see that.

She colours slightly though, her gaze turning back to the table top. "Maybe," she murmurs, the words addressed to her wine. "Or maybe I just want someone to experiment with. Someone who won't- Who isn't there because of sentiment. Someone who'll…Who'll let me figure things out on my own."

He frowns. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

She gives a lost little laugh. "I can imagine," she murmurs, but when she looks up at him there's a hard light in her eyes. Her posture becomes straight. Agitated.

When she speaks her voice is sharper than before.

"My whole life, I've been told there's something wrong with me," she says. "I'm not… I'm not like everyone else. I don't chase after sex. I don't particularly care about it. If I have it, it's fine. If I don't, I'm not losing sleep over it. I'm not- Nobody's assaulted me or hurt me-"

"I wouldn't assume that." And Sherlock wouldn't. He's had more than enough clients make that assumption about him, over the years. He knows the way it makes a person feel boxed-off. Labelled. Broken.

He wouldn't do that to someone else.

Some of this must show in his expression because Molly nods. Smiles faintly, the gesture hesitant. Thankful. She takes a deep breath before she carries on.

"I'm not… I'm not asexual, or a grey romantic, at least not as far as I can tell," she continues quietly. "I fancy men, I get turned on, I just… I just don't seem to be any use at shagging."

Sherlock frowns. "Why would you say that?" he asks. "The arsehole you were engaged to bonking someone else doesn't mean that you weren't able to satisfy him-"

"He said that's what caused it." The words sound harsh. Dead.

He doesn't know her well but even Sherlock can see such apathy is unnatural for a woman like Molly Hooper.

"Well," Sherlock says dryly. "Isn't that convenient- For him."

He has the pleasure of hearing her snort.

But he frowns. He brings his steepled hands up to his mouth to press, thinking. Part of his job is in guessing when a client's a risk and right now, that's what Molly Hooper looks like. If she's looking for some form of validation, or some way to heal her heart, then seeing him is not going to be a good idea- And he had best tell her so, post haste.

But before he can she takes another breath. Looks up at him. There's a fierceness in her now, a determination.

It stills his voice to see it.

"I want to try something new," she says quietly and her voice has the most peculiar effect on Sherlock. It slips and slides around his insides, rather like Irene's once did.

It tumbles down his spine, raising goose-flesh as it goes, and my but that is a distracting thought.

"I want to, to figure out what I like and what I want," she's saying, "and I want to do so without having to worry about what the other person wants or likes. What the other person expects. I want to work out what makes me tick, not some muppet who'll shag around on me and call it my fault.

"I know that sounds selfish, and maybe it is, but the way I look at it the only way I'm going to be able to do that- without turning into a completely egotistical arsehole- is if I have sex with someone like you. Someone who's doing a job. Someone who's difficult to shock and has plenty of experience and won't ask anything of me that I can't give-"

"You want your control back."

The words are out of his mouth before he even realises he's said them. Funny how his mouth seems to run away from him when he's around this woman- And yet, he can't bring himself to be resent her for it. Any more than he can bring himself to stop.

She blinks at him in surprise. Nods once. She catches her lip with her teeth, mulling over his words until she's ready to respond to them.

"I hadn't thought of it like that," she says, "but yeah. I want my control back. I want to know what works for me, because I'm sick and tired of trying to make myself like what works for everyone else."

And she suddenly colours, her cheeks pinking as if she's only realised what she's said. Just as quickly as she appeared, the confident, demanding Ms. Molly Hooper vanishes.

To cover it, she takes another fortifying gulp of wine.

Sherlock sits and stares at her though, mulling over the possibilities, the dangers the woman before him presents.

He still hears himself say the next words however. He's not even surprised by them.

"I shall try to clear off next week for you," he says quietly. "I can't guarantee it- I have a couple of long-term clients I don't like to leave hanging- but I should be able to secure the days for you, at least." He looks at her. "Would that be suitable?"

She nods. She appears… relieved, by his words.

"I can make that work. I've got tonnes of favours owed me in work- getting time off won't be a problem." Again she blushes. "And if you have to take a couple of clients then you have to take a couple of clients- This is, after all, a business arrangement."

"Yes," he says quietly, raising his glass in toast. "Yes, that it is."

A business arrangement.

But though they finish up their meal shortly after that, and though Sherlock's next client- one Henry Knight, a recommendation from Irene- arrives promptly at four, Sherlock finds himself mulling over Ms. Hooper long after she leaves him.

In fact, he finds himself looking forward to next week with a mix of trepidation and… enthusiasm? Which he hasn't felt for a very long time.

Later, he will blame this reaction for what happens next.

* * *

 _Molly Hooper's Soon-To-Be-Ex Flat,_

 _Islington_

 _Around Midnight_

"I did something illegal today," Molly says.

"Today I did something completely bloody mental."

And she smiles to herself in the mirror, hair pulled back tightly from her face, moisturiser-dabbed cotton swab in her hand as she swipes it carefully over her forehead. Her eyelids and nose.

She says the words aloud but nobody answers- Not that she expected them to. _Now **that** really would have been a cause for concern_. No, the flat is empty, save for herself; Meena had dropped by earlier, bringing alcohol, takeaway and abject apologies about Will which promptly dried up the moment she heard Molly had elected to take her up on her offer regarding the escort.

After that, shutting her up about him had become the main priority.

For Meena had never, in all the years Molly had known her, understood precisely when to let things go, let alone how much information was too much information. It just wasn't a thing she seemed to get. No, give Meena the slightest titbit and she'd chew on it like a dog might a bone, pushing and prodding until you actually thought of murdering her just to get her off your back-

It was, admittedly, what made her an excellent barrister.

It just didn't always make her the most relaxing friend.

And since Molly was still trying to get her own head around why she'd decided to take Will Scott up on his offer, she hadn't been in any position to deal with Meena's attempts at girl-power encouragement, however well-intentioned they may have been-

No, she'd been too busy trying to get used to the idea that she'd solicited a prostitute for sex. On purpose.

It just didn't seem the sort of thing someone like her would do.

But then dumping Tom for what he'd done didn't really seem the sort of thing someone like her would do either, and yet here she was.

Not that she could really concentrate on that thought, not when Meena was about. And certainly not when she was extolling William Scott as, "the best shag she'd ever had." Molly had eventually ended up constantly refilling her wine glass and asking about her soon-to-be-ex husband's latest exploits with his secretary in order to shut her up-

This tactic had worked- for the most part- and Meena had left Molly mercifully alone with her own thoughts.

But Meena's been gone an hour and now, as she contemplates heading to bed, she finds the enormity of what she requested today finally starting to dawn on her.

So she dithers. Delays. Considers making herself a hot chocolate. She's just finished drying off her face and she's about to go to bed when her phone beeps, the tone telling her she has a text. Wondering who the hell would be contacting her this late at night- she hopes it's not work- she picks her phone up. Taps the screen on. The message is from William Scott's work number, the one she tried to get in contact with him on today.

Not sure what the man might want- was he about to cancel their arrangement?- she opens the it.

A photo of a bedroom, rather opulent and unhomely, fills her screen- She's just thankful it's not a dick-pic- whilst underneath she reads the text.

 _Does this please you?_ he asks.

She frowns, surprised at being asked. _Is this where you usually see clients?_ she types back.

The phone beeps again as she's putting on her pyjamas and brushing her hair, meaning that she's delayed in answering it. When she finally opens it there's another picture text- _How about this one?_ he asks, the photo of another, equally opulent, equally inhospitable bedroom. This one looks like something out of _Lawrence of Arabia._

Molly's really rather surprised she's being consulted, and she texts as much.

 _You said you wanted your control back_ , his reply reads. _I thought this might be a good way to do that. But if you'd prefer something else…_

Molly can hear the arch tone in which he'd speak those words, even if it's just in her head. She smiles at the thought, remembering that smile he'd given her today- Not the sharp one from when she'd entered, the other one.

The crooked little one that seemed an invitation to all sorts of mischief.

With that in mind she takes her phone, snaps a picture of the bed in which she and Tom had- until yesterday- slept. The one in which she will soon be huddled up. She sends it to him, typing out, _This is where I'd really like to have ridiculously filthy sex, actually…_ with one hand.

She expects some laughing rejoinder, or else a dismissal, but when her phone beeps it's neither.

 _Is that where he fucked someone else?_ the text reads. Molly answers in the affirmative, trying to ignore the pang which is brings. (She may have changed the sheets but she can't really do anything about her heart.)

 _Yes,_ she types. _This is the Scene of the Crime, as Meena insists on calling it._

There's a much longer delay between this and the next, so long she assumes he's gone to bed, but then, apropos of nothing-

 _What are you wearing?_ the text reads.

She blinks, confused for a moment. Why would he-? And then it dawns on her, and she blushes bright red. She's had Tom try this with her before but he always seemed embarrassed, and irritated with her, for his being embarrassed.

Having met him, something tells Molly that Will Scott, escort extraordinaire, doesn't have a sexually embarrassed bone in his body, and in that spirit she feels emboldened, typing back,

 _I'm wearing my pyjamas. I was about to go to bed, Will._

This response is much quicker. _Take them off._ A beat, then another text. _Please._

Another beat.

 _There's no need to send pictorial proof, if you had rather not,_ he adds.

It's this last text message which makes her feel excited, though for the life of her Molly can't imagine why.

Maybe because everything is being put into her hands, just as she'd said she wanted.

So she does as he asks, excitement starting to curl in her belly. With one hand she slides off her pyjama top, then her bottoms. Lies down on the bed, feeling the coolness of new sheets against her bare skin. She's started to get wet, slippery, this feeling of, of power sliding through her veins like champagne.

She's not sure what's about to happen but for once she's fine with that.

 _I'm in bed_ , she sends. _Not wearing my pyjamas. Not wearing anything at all. How about you?_

Her phone buzzes. Another picture text. An image of long, lean white limbs against pale white sheets opens on her screen. She can see the size of him, his length as those elegant fingers of his wrap around his cock. She can also see the dark dusting of hair along his belly, his legs. He looks… he looks delicious.

It's quite the most appetising image of a naked man she's ever seen.

 _Is that for me?_ She asks.

 _All for you._

 _What are you going to do with it?_ She asks, feeling ever so slightly giddy.

 _I'm going to stroke it while I imagine being buried balls-deep inside you, Ms. Hooper,_ he sends back. _Is that acceptable?_

She blinks again, somewhere between mortified and delighted, a grin splitting her face in the dark.

 _Yes, that is acceptable, Mr. Scott,_ she sends back. _Though I'm not sure what I should be doing, when you're so occupied…_

 _I should think that was obvious, Ms. Hooper,_ he sends. _I want you to imagine the same thing as I am… Adding, of course, any debauched little details you wish whilst you're lying in, as Meena puts it, The Scene of The Crime._

And another image hits her phone, then another and another. They show- oh my, they show Will's hand moving on himself, stroking up, then down, his thumb and fingers curving harshly against his cock-head. His legs splayed, one heel digging sharply into his bed. Molly can't see his face but she can imagine it in her mind, those beautiful eyes narrowed, head thrown back- He'd be moaning too, long and low in that lovely deep voice-

Without thinking about it, she lays the phone down, her own hands sliding down her body. Thumbs stroking tightly down her thighs, fingers digging in to knead and squeeze.

As she does she closes her eyes, imagines it's his hands doing this. His voice in her ear. He's asking her what she wants- "Does this please you?"- and the notion of it is making her so wet that she slips her fingers upwards, lets both her thumbs curl inside her mons.

 _It feels **so** good._

Slowly, languidly, she circles her clit with her right thumb before bringing her index finger up and squeezing it, just the right side of sharply. This time it's her that moans. Her hips hitch up, arousal building as her fingers play, in and out, in and out, her juices coating them and making them sticky. Slick.

She loves the sensation.

Her back arches at the thought, her nipples tightening against the coolness of the air as she huffs again, as she moans again. One hand slides up to press against her breast, filling her palm with it just the way she likes and as she squeezes her nipple with wet fingers the phone sounds. Someone's calling her.

 _Who the hell is calling her **now**?_

She sees the number and realises it's him; briefly taking one hand from her breast she takes the call. Drops the phone back onto the mattress. She hears his breathing, heavy and harsh; as she does the fingers between her legs delve deeper, her legs twisting sharply together in bliss.

"I want to hear you," he says and he's breathless. Moaning too.

"I can do that." And Molly's own moans become louder, deeper, rising in a cacophony of need as her fingers stroke and coax her to climax, his voice in her ear. Her own hand at her breast. It feels so fucking good. It feels so fucking amazing.

It feels so fucking right she never wants it to stop.

Orgasm breaks over her, heat and pleasure shivering through her, her cries drowning his out for a moment before she comes down to Earth. Heart thudding, body shaking, she's soaked in sweat, her fingers streaking wetness across her nipple, her thighs, as she tries to calm down.

She doesn't succeed in that.

For a moment she says nothing, trying to catch her breath. Her gaze darts over to the phone and now she feels shy, now she feels embarrassed. Now, when she's actually come. With trembling hands she picks up the phone, about to ask him… something, anything, but as she looks at the screen she realises that he's hung up. She can't believe he hung up on her. She flops back on the bed, not sure how she feels about that even as the phone beeps.

She's received another text message.

 _You sound absolutely fucking gorgeous when you come_ , he's sent. _In case you were wondering._

Another text follows on its heels moments later, showing his hands. His belly. They're covered in sticky white ejaculate, his cock now hanging limp and thick between his thighs. Again the phone sounds, this time displaying a picture and in this one he's smiling slyly into the screen, his face for the first time visible. He looks… He looks pleased with himself and somehow oddly abashed. His hair's mushed and his eyes are dark. Hooded.

 _Thank you,_ says the text beneath the photo. _Goodnight. I look forward to next week._

Molly stares at the phone, nonplussed and then lies back down. Pulls the covers slowly over her shoulders and mulls over what she's just done. She doesn't regret it: On the contrary, she feels… She feels sated, she realises. Content with what just happened. She came, something she hasn't done in rather a while. That wasn't something at which she and Tom had excelled. Though she's not sure how she feels about Will hanging up, she still feels… good. In control.

It seems Meena wasn't lying about his capabilities.

She sets her alarm and then turns off her phone. Closes her eyes. Within moments she's asleep. Dreaming.

While on the other side of town Sherlock stares into space, his mind worried. Unhappy.

 _What on Earth had he been thinking of_ , he wonders, _ringing a client off the clock?_


	7. Health and Safety

Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN: HEALTH AND SAFETY**

* * *

 _Sherlock Holmes' flat, Montague Street_

 _One of the More Mortifying Moments of His Career_

 _What the bloody Hell was that?_ Sherlock asks himself.

 _What on Earth made you think that_ _ **that**_ _was a good idea?_

And he puts the phone down slowly, keeping his eye on it as if it might bite him. He knows it's a ludicrous reaction but he can't seem to help himself. The pleasure of climax is rapidly receding and his old foe, common sense, is making its voice heard.

As always, it sounds remarkably like Irene.

 _You called a client off the clock_ , it whispers.

 _You coaxed her into an interaction she hadn't agreed to- and which you never discussed charging her for- and now you've, now you've-_

"Now you've come all over yourself," he murmurs, shaking his head and sitting up in the bed. "Silly, silly boy."

And he plants his bare feet on the floor, face in his hands even as he tries to calm his heartbeat into normality. The sticky mess on his belly, fingers and thighs is rapidly cooling in the bedroom air. It feels… It feels unpleasantly messy. Disordered.

The thought tugs at Sherlock's mind in the same way Minister Winstead's overlapping, unmatched perfumes had yesterday.

So he lurches to his feet, stalks into the shower. He turns on the water- never mind that it's freezing- and leans forward, resting his head on the cool white tiles for a moment. He just needs to clear his head. He can feel the water lashing at his back, dragging against his flesh like pinpricks of ice and he forces himself to turn around, to present his front to the onslaught. The cold water rakes at his chest, his thighs, his genitals even as it washes the mess he's made of himself away-

Taking a deep breath he steps directly under the spray and tips his head back, letting it lash his face, plaster his hair to his scalp.

He can see Molly Hooper's big, dark eyes behind his eyelids.

He raises his hands at the image, raking his fingers against the wet curls, the motion soothing. _Necessary._

He's not sure how long he stands there but he knows it can't be long.

When he comes out he feels calmer. More together. He towels himself dry and pads back to bed, lying down in the same spot in which he'd been when he was… communicating with Molly.

At the realisation he sighs. Lets his head fall back. His eyes are dragged over to the phone and it's only with great difficulty that he manages to prevent himself from picking it up. Looking at the photos he sent her, the messages.

Oh course, he realises in dismay, the thing he really wants to look at are the messages she sent him.

His fingers itch to reopen them; again it occurs to him, how potentially dangerous it is to be this distracted by a client.

With a frustrated huff he closes his eyes, presses the heels of his hands against his lids and counts to ten in Latin. Then Greek. Then French. By the time he's gotten to Arabic he's feeling a little calmer, a little more himself. His heartbeat has returned to normal and the bed sheets have warmed up against his skin. So what if he'd started things off in an unlikely way? He tells himself. He'd known Molly was shy and he'd thought this a good way to get her to open up for next week. He'd thought it would save time with her when they met next in person, and nobody could fault him for that: _It's his bloody job._

 _And the way she makes you feel?_ Ms. Common-Sense Adler demands in his head. _That had nothing to do with it?_

 _That bitten little lip and those big, calf eyes hadn't the slightest bearing on your actions tonight, eh?_

Sherlock shakes his head. Closes his eyes tighter. Sometimes she's worse than Mycroft used to be, back when he was the voice of what passed for Sherlock's conscience-

At the remembrance of his brother he winces. Curls in on himself. A broken, blighted street and his mother's blank eyes rear up in his mind, the image so overwhelming that he pushes it away, shaking his head sharply to himself as he does.

 _He never purposefully tries to remember Mycroft and yet, sometimes he feels like he never does anything bloody else._

But he's not thinking of his brother now, he's not remembering what happened. He can't. He won't. With a frustrated growl he takes the phone, petulantly taps the screen to set his alarm for tomorrow and then turns the damn thing off. Effectively eliminating the temptation posed by Molly bloody Hooper's stupid bloody text messages. Effectively cutting off his mind from its rather wry inquiries into why he might have done what he did tonight, given what he knows about the dangers of muddying up his professional relationships.

Instead he turns off his bedside lamp, hunches down beneath the covers and prays for daybreak. It takes him ages to fall asleep, tossing and turning until the wee small hours.

But though he'll never admit it, when he finally succumbs it's the best night's rest he's had in years.

* * *

Molly gets through the rest of the week with a giddy, nervous sort of energy that everyone comments on.

Whenever they ask however, she merely puts it down to the stress of looking for a new flat.

The questions about this always segue way into the revelation that she and Tom are not getting married- The git at least had the courtesy to ring both his mother and her brother and explain things. (The former had demanded he try harder, the latter had explained that the next time he saw Tom he was going to deck him. He had then called his sister and given Molly the opportunity to cry to him over the phone, an opportunity Molly had not taken. She hadn't been surprised, really, that she had no tears to shed).

And that had been that; no massive, long break-up spiel. No lingering thoughts about getting back together.

More than anything, Molly had felt as if a weight were being lifted, and with every person she told she felt lighter and lighter still.

She's rather alarmed at how quickly her guilt is receding.

So by the time Monday has come around and it's time to meet Will, she's rather pleased with herself. Excited, even. She's about to embark on an adventure, a proper adventure, with someone who she can genuinely ask anything of. Someone she's fairly certain she won't shock. And when she's finished, she'll at least have some idea of what she wants in a partner, or whether there's something entirely, functionally wrong with her-

The business arrangement suits everyone, she knows, smiling as she pulls on her heels and checks herself in the mirror before heading out to The Dorchester. (Will has apparently gotten them a room there).

She grins all the way in, looking so pleased that even the cabbie notices it.

"Got a hot date, darlin'?" he asks with a leer. Another driver cuts him off and he flips him the finger, muttering mutinously under his breath about tourist drivers.

"No," she smiles serenely, barely noticing. "It's more what you'd call a business meeting."

* * *

 _The Dorchester Hotel Foyer_

 _About Two Minutes Later_

When she gets to the hotel a text tells her to go to the front desk, collect her key.

She's to ask for a room under the name Scott and the hotel staff will do the rest.

Molly is unsure when she realises that Will isn't going to greet her at the door but she does as he asks, picks up the room-key. The woman who hands it to her smiles beatifically and tells her she hopes she'll enjoy her stay, that breakfast is served until twelve and that if she wants anything until then she need only ask. This surprises Molly; she had rather assumed that she would be spending a few hours here at most, filling time until Will had to leave her for another client-

She mulls over this as she rides the lift to the seventh floor and hops off.

She mulls over it as she stumbles down the corridor to the room, clumsy in her nervousness and haste and relieved that there's nobody present to see it.

She even mulls over it as she finds the room, opens the door to find Will sitting on a white leather sofa, his back to her-

Inside the curtains are pulled, milky warm light pouring in through the windows. The traffic whispers outside and the breeze is tantalising. Cool.

Mr. Scott is perched on the very edge of his seat, the ankle of his left leg resting on his right knee. A stack of papers sits in his lap and he appears to be perusing his phone, frowning to himself.

He doesn't look up when Molly enters.

"Please have a seat," he says, still not raising his eyes from his mobile, and he indicates a single white wooden chair which has been placed directly in front of him, about a leg's distance away from the sofa.

Beside the chair Molly can see a small white coffee table, an array of various… accoutrements on it.

She spies a flail. A blindfold. A pair of handcuffs. A riding crop.

She also spies a selection of toys, ranging from the rather small to the intimidatingly large, all of them sleek and aerodynamic. _These are not cheap devices._

A thrill goes through her at the thought, the jolt of it tightening her chest and setting her pulse speeding.

She can feel the beginning of wetness pooling between her legs.

So she takes the seat he indicated without saying a word, anticipation already making her belly twist and knot. She clasps her hands together in her lap, tries to stop herself from fidgeting.

She doesn't know why she finds it so difficult.

When she sits he looks up, nods but doesn't smile. She has the oddest feeling he's tense but she doesn't know why. Without a word he holds out his papers, tersely gesturing for her to take it, which she does.

Once she has them he seems to relax a tad, as if he's been reassured about something.

"Since this is our first session face to face," he says, "I thought we should discuss your preferences."

A small smile tugs at his features, though his expression suggests it does so rather against his better judgement.

Molly instinctively smiles to match him and instantly his grin fades.

"I didn't think it wise to ask these questions in the restaurant," he continues smoothly. "That day contained quite enough revelations, and I didn't believe you would enjoy being asked about these things where anyone might hear."

Molly gives a small nod and again he shoots her that unwilling smile. Again he seems his expression cools, again he seems to pull back from her.

"The object in your hands is a list of practices," he drawls, the effect somehow… forced. It reminds Molly strongly of his reaction when he first tried to proposition her at the restaurant. "We're going to go through it, and at the end you're going to choose the one with which we start our arrangement today.

"Be aware that blood, breath and scat play are off the menu- Not that I think you'll be asking about them."

"Certainly not," Molly says quietly. She has no desire to cut, strangle or defecate on the man before her and her expression must say as much.

This time when he smiles, his expression is… gentler.

"Yes, well," he clears his throat. He rakes a hand through his hair, making it stick up and just for a moment he looks ridiculously boyish. It's really rather attractive. "I just thought I had better say it," he says, shrugging. "It's not the sort of thing one wants any confusion about."

And Molly nods. Opens the list before her. The first few sentences she reads concern sexual safety, giving permission to use condoms, lube, asking about her sexual health status (with an attached report on his) and what type of contraception she's using. It's all fairly straight-forward, medical even, and she finds it oddly soothing.

The list of activities on the second page though…

Well, that she doesn't find soothing. At all.

For there's a list of sex acts, each slightly more alarming than the next. Each one prompting an unwelcome process of comprehension as she tries to work out what they are and hence why they might be attractive. Because how would she even know how she likes being tied up, let alone whether she'd want other people present? Having never tried a strap-on she's entirely unsure whether she'd like to be on the receiving end of one or give waving one about a go. And there are other things she doesn't like the sound of, things which seem to feature devices and health and safety warnings- _who on Earth discovers that they're turned on by being wrapped in cellophane like a mummy and abandoned in a corner for an hour-?_

"Molly, relax." His words cut through her discomfort and she realises with a start that she's breathing rather heavily, something which might be panic starting to claw at her.

She blinks up at him, embarrassed, and he reaches hesitantly out to her, lays one hand on her shoulder.

He seems reluctant to do so and she can't for the life of her understand why.

"Molly, this is not a shopping list of things you have to do," he says. "It's not even a list of things _I_ have to do. I just thought, given how you said you wanted to experiment, that I would show you how broad an array of choices you have-"

"I don't want this." She says the words sharply, the lovely, bubbly confidence with which she'd entered the room has long since disappeared. She pushes the sheaf of papers back into his hands, shaking her head. "I- I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it, or, or anything, I just don't want-"

"You're more vanilla." He says the words without any inflection. They're a statement of fact, not a judgement. He even throws her that smile she saw last week, the crooked little one she actually liked, and nods.

Instantly she feels a little better.

"Yeah," she says, aware her cheeks are now turning pink. Jesus, she hates being this easy to rile. "I just- I just don't want to-"

"You don't have to. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do." And he smiles again. Takes her hand and pulls her towards him. With another little tug she's on his lap, his chin at her shoulder as he invites her to look at the devices he's left out.

"Do you like the look of any of those, Ms. Hooper?" he asks and she nods. Smiles shyly.

She almost expects him to snap at the sight of it- Tom would have- but he doesn't seem bothered by it.

 _Though, to be fair, judging by that list he's seen a lot worse._

"I like the look of that one," she says, pointing at one of the smaller toys. It's a vibrator, the smallest jackrabbit she's ever seen. It would fit rather comfortably in the palm of her hand.

He nods, as if this is merely to be expected.

"Anything else?" And his arm snakes around her waist, his palm flattening against her belly. His fingers press circles on it. The weight is warm. Pleasant. Distracting.

She bites her lip, nodding towards the blindfold. She reaches out to pick it up and as she does the palm on her stomach dips lower, his fingers splaying out to caress. It makes her skin tingle. She leans back in, twisting in his lap until she can hold the blindfold up and press it gently against his eyes. She holds it there.

For a split second he stills and she murmurs an apology, makes to remove it, but then-

"Leave it," he murmurs. One hand comes to her wrist to still it, the palm which had been at her belly now sliding down her backside.

Without warning she moves, straddling him, and she can feel the barest hint of his cock hardening against her inner thigh as she does so. _It feels divine._ For a moment she ducks her head, about to kiss him, but then remembers that this is an arrangement, not a date.

She leans forward and whispers in his ear. "Can I kiss you?"

She feels like an idiot, a teenager, but he smiles. Nods. He turns his head towards the sound of her voice, tugging slightly at her wrist and pulling the blindfold down from his eyes.

When he looks at her, his pupils dilate, his tongue darting out to wet his lip and Molly feels her reaction to it through every inch of her skin. Her body shivers with it.

"Well?" he asks tartly. She didn't think it possible, but his voice has gone even deeper than before. "What are you waiting for, Ms. Hooper?"

She feels a thrill of mischief. "I'm waiting to hear you say it, Mr. Scott," she murmurs. Her smile widens. "I'm waiting to hear you say you want me to-"

"I want you to kiss me." The tone leaves no room for misinterpretation, or, indeed, argument. "I want you to kiss me, Ms. Hooper," he says, "and then I want you to take me into the bedroom behind us and fuck me until we both come.

"Is that acceptable?"

And his breath stills, his eyes coming to rest on her as if he's actually unsure of the answer. Wordlessly, she nods. She lets the blindfold drop, takes his face in her hands and kisses him. It's slow. Hesitant at first. He doesn't open his mouth, doesn't invite her tongue to tangle with his. He has the most wonderful lower lip though, soft and plump, and she sucks it into her own. Nips at it.

He lets out a decedent little moan, his head falling back against the sofa and she feels an entirely alien, entirely lovely sense of power, that she made him do that.

So slowly, she gets to her feet, holds her hand out. He takes it, lets her pull him into standing. She indicates the bedroom with a jerk of her chin and he nods. Follows her. He snags the blindfold and the toy as he goes, slinging his free arm casually about her waist and pulling her against his front as they walk into the bedroom.

She can feel his rapidly-hardening cock pressing between the cheeks of her arse.

Molly smiles at the thought, pushing to door closed with her back as she watches him pad to the bed. Sit down upon it. He looks up at her, his hair mussed and his lower lip stung from where she'd bitten it and he holds out both blindfold and toy.

Their fingers touch when she takes them and again her skin tingles.

"So… What are you going to do with me now, Ms. Hooper?" he says quietly.

She frowns at him. "I haven't decided yet," she says carefully. "But I think I'd rather like to use these..."

And she crosses the room, places the blindfold and toy on the bed. She stands, looking down into his face as she strokes her free hand through his hair. She traces the curve of his jaw, his nose. Strokes her thumb gently along his closed eyelids, marvelling at the feel of his eyelashes almost fluttering against her skin. Her thumb darts out, gently tracing the rise of his upper lip and he opens his mouth in invitation; She slides her thumb inside and he nips the digit lightly, his tongue swiping out to lick her flesh. When he sucks on it her breath catches, surprised that something so small could feel so, so… erotic.

She presses forward, kneeling on the bed and tipping his face upwards. Kissing him, chests and legs and arms tangling together.

It's long and slow and deep, just the way she likes it and at the thought she feels something, something tight inside her chest she hadn't even known was there, slowly begin to unclench.

One hand strokes down his throat- she feels it acutely when he swallows- while the other rakes through his hair again, the feel of it silky between her fingers. Pleasant. She pushes him onto his back and he goes easily, looking up at her through hooded, aroused eyes.

His erection is straining against the fly of his trousers, tenting the fabric.

His gaze flickers to the blindfold in invitation and she nods. Reaches out and takes it. She presses it against his closed eyelids and he sighs, his shoulders hitching apart and releasing a tension she hadn't even realised they held.

 _It is, she can't help but think, rather a beautiful thing to witness_.

She ties the knot at the back of his head easily, making sure his hair doesn't catch and that it's far enough down that it won't dig into his skull when he lies back down. This he does, allowing her to press him backwards even as she scoots off the bed, stands and just looks at him. She's never really had a chance to just look at someone like this before: He's gorgeous and mussed and aroused and as she thinks that she leans forward, kisses him again-

Her tongue tangles with his and he smiles at her, head tipped back and throat bared in apparent abandon. Apparent carelessness.

"I'm going to undress you now," she says and she's so pleased it isn't a question. "Would you like that, Will?"

He nods. "Oh Christ, please, yes," he breathes.

He stretches his arms up eagerly, fingers catching at the underside of the headboard.

In this pose he looks captive, held down, though of course it's his own doing, not hers.

Molly rather likes seeing him like this though. _She rather likes the way he's lying, splayed out and ready for her_. She begins at his shoes, unlacing the expensive leather ankle boots. She pulls his socks off, smiling when he huffs in impatience, tilting his hips and cock towards her in obvious eagerness, the heel of one foot digging into the bed.

"Molly," he almost whines and she shuts him up with a long, passionate kiss, suckling on his lower lip again.

"Molly," he says again and this time it sound thankful. Breathless.

She takes the hint with a smile, reaching for his fly and he actually hisses when her hands make contact with his cock through the fabric of his trousers, her fingers reaching easily inside to squeeze him through the fabric as he huffs and presses into her palm. She unbuttons him, carefully pulling both trousers and underwear down and over her hips. He helps, raising his arse off the bed as she pulls them free and sighing in pleasure when his bare skin meets the cool air of the room-

 _The sound of it makes Molly's mouth water._

Her hands go to his shirt buttons, pressing them open and pulling the fabric apart, his pale skin revealed to her in bits and pieces. Whorls of black wiry hair pepper his chest, his nipples dark and erect and she can't help it, curiosity compels her: She reaches out, scratches lightly at them.

He hisses in pleasure and she leans down. Nips lightly at the left one before suckling it.

His right hand leaves its place at the headboard, gripping the back of her head and pulling her towards him, his voice murmuring, "Again, please. Again," and she grins. Obliges him.

His fingers dig sharply into the back of her skull and this time it's her turn to moan.

She keeps grinning though, tongue lapping lightly to soothe the hurt even as he swears for her. Even as he twists, his cock reaching ever greater hardness. It looks almost like he's in physical pain. His prick arches up, straining towards his belly and with grin of triumph she takes it in her hand. Squeezes lightly. She traces her thumb along the delicate underside, the veins along its length.

She's rewarded by a string of breathless curse-words, his hips pushing helplessly into her palm.

With another smile she pulls away, reaches underneath her dress and finds her tights and knickers. Pulls both down. She's so wet, so slippery now and at the thought she grins even more. _This is, she has no doubt, going to be so good._

"Where are the condoms, Will?" she murmurs and he hisses, jerks his chin in the direction of the bedside dresser to the left of him. Molly leans over him and opens the top drawer, feels around before she snags the small foil packet. She pulls it out with a huff of triumph and bites it open, pulling her prize out and sliding it onto him with practiced ease.

He lets out a long, shallow sigh as she does, hand coming to rest at the flare of her hips as she climbs atop him. As she leans down and kisses him again and again. And again and again and again.

 _It feels so, so… wicked, her being clothed and he as naked as the day he was born._

One hand sweeps down, his thumb pressing lightly against her clit as he steadies himself for her. Their hands wrap, one over the other, to hold him in place.

"Is this what you want?" he mutters. "Do you want to fuck me, Molly?"

"Oh God yes." She nods, breathless and excited. She can feel his cock head pressing inside her, the width of him opening her up. Widening her.

With a small moan she brings herself all the way down on him suddenly, feeling him press sharply inside herself.

It's a lush, filling sensation, one so good that her eyes nearly roll back in her head.

She leans back, her hands pressed flat onto his abdominals, her nails catching lightly at his pale skin. He hisses in pleasure at each and every scratch, at each and every undulation of her hips. _It makes her feel so bloody good._ She reaches forward, tugs at his head and brings his lips to her own. Kisses him. He sighs and swears in pleasure as she does it and with that she begins to… There's no other way to say it: She rides him.

Keeping her own time she raises herself up then brings herself down again.

The stretch and width of him pull at her flesh, setting goose-bumps rising on every inch of her skin.

She shivers in pleasure, shakes with it; The bed rattles energetically with each and every movement, her thigh muscles burning at the hitch and stretch of what she's demanding they accomplish. She can hear his breathing mixing with hers, loud and out-of-control as a locomotive. His abdominals jump and clench beneath her hands with her every movement and she can see the pleasure she's giving him written on every line of his face.

So she keeps going, pushes him harder. Pulls him along in the wake of her own pleasure. He begs and pleads with her, asks her to finish him. Begs her to let him finish her. The thumb he'd pressed into her clit begins working magic there, massaging and pinching her with each heady rise and each decedent fall-

Both his hands leave the headboard, searching under her skirt to knead and press at her arse, to drag her more tightly to him.

Molly welcomes it. Moans out encouragement. She can feel the press of his fingers parting her arse-cheeks, stroking the sensitive flesh between them and as she thinks that she reaches out almost blindly. Their flesh slaps together, loud and debauched and delicious in the still, quiet room. Without ceasing moving Molly grabs that little toy she brought in here with her. She fumbles with the switch, turns it on and then burrows it under her skirts, bringing it right to the place where his most sensitive flesh joins with hers- _Nearly there_ , she thinks, _nearly there-_

 _Ah._

And then-

 ** _Sweet Jesus fucking Christ._**

For the toy's effect is immediate. Electric. Her body jerks in pleasure, buzzes with it. She presses it more tightly to her clit, sliding the vibrating length to stroke against the small stretch of cock that's not inside her and Will tosses his head back, his body arching helplessly at the feel of what she's doing to him. Orgasm rips through her, relentless and overpowering, breathless and uncontrollable and as she screams her completion he loses all control, hips pistoning helplessly into her.

He keeps going through her own orgasm before finally surrendering to his.

He comes in a breathless stream of swear-words, the cords on his neck standing out, his fingers digging helplessly into her buttocks. Molly collapses forward on him, turning her head to press tiny, open-mouthed kisses to his Adam's apple. His jaw.

"Christ, that was good," she murmurs and she feels him nod. He doesn't pull out of her.

She takes this to mean that he agrees.

His arms come up around her and pull her to him tightly, but though she expects him to speak he doesn't. He just curls himself around her as her heart quiets, his fingers tracing light, sweet circles around the flesh of her thighs. Every so often he presses a kiss to her hair. She's always been shy after climax and today is no exception but for once he doesn't berate her, or demand she act differently.

No, he seems content to let her lie there and oh but that is a lovely notion.

Molly smiles at the thought, pressing kisses to his chest, his throat- _If this is a sample of what he can do,_ she thinks, _then this week is going to be wonderful_ -

Were she looking at his features- sans the blindfold- however, she might have seen the disquiet written across his face.


	8. Trading Standards

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT: TRADING STANDARDS**

* * *

 _Stay calm,_ Sherlock tells himself desperately as he wraps his arms around Molly.

 _Stay calm and don't let the client see what's going on-_

 _That's how this has to go._

And he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes behind the blindfold and counts to ten, first in Greek, then in Latin, then in Arabic.

It's an old trick for an old reaction and it stands him in good stead now.

As he tries to calm himself he slowly goes through his body, cataloguing his physical state. He is… He's not great, right now. Not at all. There's stress in his spine, his shoulders; His throat is tight, breath coming too fast and too harshly for comfort. His hands feel like livewires, fingers stretched out starkly against the sheets. He's holding onto his control by the narrowest of threads, some part of him yelling to get out of this bed and away from the woman in his arms before things go completely tits up and he comes unravelled in front of a client-

Fortunately for him, however, he has a myriad of experience dealing with this particular fear- Or at least he tells himself he does.

And so he holds himself together. Doesn't panic. He won't let himself believe that he's panicking.

His hands don't even shake that much, when he pulls off the blindfold.

He blinks at the room, takes a deep breath. He's managing to do a decent impression of a man well-sated, something which prompts a sleepy smile from Molly when she finally raises her head from his chest and looks at him.

"Well," she says, another smaller, shyer smile curling at her lip. "That was rather marvellous, wasn't it?"

And she looks at him expectantly, the brightness of her eyes beginning to falter the longer he goes without answering.

Suddenly she's looking a little bit… wary.

He doesn't want her to look wary.

Sherlock tries to pull himself together- For God's sake, man, he admonishes himself. It's just a bit of fucking.

You've done filthier things than this most weeks: Why on Earth should you be discomfited now?

And it's a reasonable question, one to which he wishes he didn't know the answer. It's obvious to him though, has been since he saw the blindfold, since she took charge of him. Since he slipped inside her and then unravelled, panting, in her arms. Because he's had sex with a lot of people, has fucked and screwed and shagged his way through life for the last five years and in all that time he hasn't- He's never-

He closes his eyes tighter. Makes himself think it. Acknowledge it. No matter how mortifying, he knows, one must always face up to one's demons.

And his demon is this: He's never before lost control with a client.

He's never just… Never just let himself get swept away, until today.

 _Until **her**._

As he thinks this he huffs out a breath, unhappy at the thought. Distrustful of it. He'd permitted Irene to top him obviously, when he was learning the ropes, but it hadn't felt like this. It hadn't ever felt this… personal. This… intimate. It hadn't ever happened with a client before. Orgasm has always been a simple process, a natural result of sexual activity; Given his profession it tended to be entirely divorced from sentiment and he has thus never been overly emotional about it.

And yet, today with Molly, he'd just… He'd just… Shame washes over him: He'd let himself go completely.

That's why he's feeling like this.

He'd permitted himself to let someone else in, and he can feel the result of that decision, that loss of control, buzzing through his body even now. Sentiment- feeling- is washing through him and he can't seem to make it stop. He wants so much to have it stop. Because it feels desperate. Frightening. So good and so dangerous, all at the same time, a tidal wave that will surely drown him...

He hasn't had to deal with anything this overwhelming in five long years and he has not a notion what to do with it now. At the thought he closes his eyes, throat working tightly. His hands curl into fists against the sheets in embarrassment, the fabric's coolness rasping against his skin. He's being ridiculous, he tells himself sharply. He's being an idiot and he needs to get his fucking act together. A prostitute getting worked up about the idea of coming is a dirty joke, a punch-line waiting to happen-It's not like this is the first trick he's turned-

But the other tricks hadn't been her. The other tricks hadn't had this effect on him. They hadn't smiled at him, hadn't seemed to… speak to him somehow.

They hadn't ever… touched him like this, like something out of a fantasy he'd never dare name.

It is at this realisation that Sherlock is forced to admit just how much of a cluster-fuck this situation actually is.

Maybe he says some of this, maybe his expression speaks for him. Maybe Molly is even more perceptive than he's previously given her credit for. Because whatever the reason, he feels one hand move up to cup his bicep then, the other moving to stroke gentle circles on his back even as Molly hums softly in her throat, the sound soothing. Calming.

Her voice sounds lovely in his ear.

She presses a kiss to his forehead and he frowns a little at it, discombobulated, but when she tries to move away he pulls her close again. Shakes his head.

He doesn't know what the bloody hell he's doing.

"Don't," he mutters, hating his hesitance. Hating how, how out of control he's feeling.

At his words Molly stills.

"Don't go, Will?" she asks quietly. "Or don't stay?"

And Sherlock lets out a hopeless, helpless little laugh, forcing himself to open his eyes. Forcing himself to look at her.

She looks so… disarmingly lovely, sitting there in her nest of sheets.

"Would you believe me if I told you I don't know which one I want?" he asks and she smiles, that soft, gentle thing he remembers from their first meeting in the restaurant.

Nobody smiles at him like that.

Nobody's smiled at him like that in seven years.

He makes himself acknowledge the reality of that, just as he makes himself acknowledge the reality of why he doesn't deserve it. Why he knows he doesn't deserve it.

"I'd believe you, if you told me that," she's saying. "I'd believe pretty much anything you tell me, if you tell me it's true."

And she reaches out, presses a small kiss to his shoulder. Then another, equally gentle, at the juncture of his clavicle and his neck.

He cocks an eyebrow at her, fighting against a throat which is now threatening to close up again.

"You'd say that even though you know what I do for a living?" he asks quietly and she nods.

She smiles slightly more widely.

"Even though." She moves to sit, tucking her legs beneath her. Her hand as yet to leave his bicep, her thumb now stroking gentle circles against his flesh.

"Just because you work in, well, this-" she gestures to the room around her- "doesn't mean you're any more or less trustworthy."

And she ducks her head, addresses the next to his knee. She kisses it too. It tickles.

He lets out an embarrassingly loud sigh at this.

"Besides, I know what it's like to feel overwhelmed sometimes," she continues. She flicks a quiet look up at him, before returning her attention to his leg. "If it can happen to me," she murmurs, "then why shouldn't it happen to you too?" And she goes back to kissing his skin. Stroking it.

He shakes his head. He can't believe he's about to say this.

"But I'm supposed to be a professional," he points out quietly. "You came to me because you said you wanted something with no strings attached." He lets out another helpless laugh, gesturing to himself. "Does this look in any way string-less to you, Molly?"

She raises her head again at that, looks at him; He has the oddest feeling that those eyes could peer right through flesh and bone if they had a mind to.

"I said I wanted someone to be honest with," she says. "I wanted someone I could explore with- And so far that person has been you."

Sherlock scoffs. "Is that what you'd call this?" he asks archly. "Exploring?"

She shrugs. "Call it what you like," she counters. "Call it being honest and doing some exploring for yourself. But if you think I'm upset or disappointed… I'm not."

Again she looks away.

"And I'd rather you be honest with me than pretend to be ok when you're not."

And again she goes back to kissing him, running those strong little hands of hers over his thighs, his belly. It makes his flesh sing with sensation, with kindness.

Sherlock doesn't understand why she's doing this.

"But why would you care?" he asks. "I'm a… a convenience. An employee, if you're feeling polite. An indulgence, if you're feeling honest-"

"You're a person." Molly speaks over him. "You're a person who looks like he's in trouble. Like he's upset about something. Doesn't matter about what you do for a living, you're a person first and you need someone right now."

Sherlock cocks a cynical eyebrow at her. "And that person has to be you, does it?"

"If there's someone else you'd rather call then I'll call them," she says simply.

For a moment Irene's face flashes through his mind but instantly he dismisses it, too embarrassed to admit to his mentor that he's fucked up this badly.

Besides, if he's being honest with himself, he knows he doesn't want her to leave.

So he rakes his hand through his hair. Sighs. He wonders if he can even begin to explain this. He knows what's wrong, he just doesn't know whether he wants to tell her. He's never considered telling anyone before, let alone a client.

"It's…" he begins- Or tries to. But he doesn't know how to say it without scaring her. And he's certainly not sharing the wash of sentiment churning in him right now.

"It's complicated," he says after a moment, hedging.

She looks at him, one eyebrow cocked. "Somehow, I don't doubt that," she says wryly and he shoots her a sharp look, checking to see if she's mocking him but she isn't. No, she's staring at him, her expression open, her eyes kind. She looks harmless. Innocent. Like a thousand miles of bad road, road he can't help but start wandering down.

So he takes a deep breath. Lays back. This will be easier if he's not looking at her.

After a moment he feels the bed dip, feels her curl next to him. Her hand curls gently against his sternum and despite himself he smiles. He lets the silence stretch out again, testing it. Testing her. She doesn't get angry and he's not used to such patience.

"I've been doing this for five years," he says eventually. It's surprisingly difficult, working out where to start this story.

He has the oddest feeling he's not choosing which story to tell, not at all.

"Ever since I got clean- Heroin," he clarifies at her raised eyebrows. "Well," he amends, "it didn't start with heroin. Had to work my way up to that.

"But I've always… I've always had an appetite for self-destruction-"

"You beat it though, didn't you?"

He feels her stiffen beside him, prepares himself for a deluge of ill-timed and unwanted advice that doesn't come. When she says nothing he looks down at her. She meets his gaze calmly. Quietly.

Again, he wonders at this little woman and her calmness.

"Yes, I beat it," he says, when she doesn't speak. "I had to. But not before it cost me… not before it cost me rather a lot, in fact. I dropped out of university, I lost any hope of pursuing my chosen profession. I ended up living on the streets-"

"That sounds awful," she says. "But that's not what has you upset, is it?"

He blinks at her, curious, despite himself. "How do you know?"

She shrugs, curling herself up against his chest again. "The things you lost don't matter that much to you," she says quietly. "I can hear it in your voice.

"And besides, surviving all that makes you strong- You know that."

He nods, surprised. It's an odd thing to hear someone else speak your own thoughts to you. "I am proud of getting clean," he says quietly. "It nearly bloody killed me but I managed it."

"Then what's the thing which you regret?" She presses a tiny kiss to his throat. "What's causing this?"

He pauses, his throat closing up as he tries to form the words. They bubble up within him, surprising and unstoppable. Again he thinks that he's never told anyone, not really: Even Irene had already known when she came to find him. And yet-

"My brother Mycroft, he was killed in the last round of London bombings," Sherlock says quietly.

The words feel like rocks in his mouth as he says them.

He'd thought… He'd thought those words unspeakable out loud, with someone present. Someone to witness them.

Molly grows still- watchful- and he feels like an utter bastard.

He watches her put it together, this week's date, this week's anniversary and he has to look away because he can't bear to see pity in anyone's gaze.

"He was… He was on a Tube from Whitehall when the first went off," he continues quietly, the words getting harder to say. His voice working faster. Now he's started talking, he can't seem to stop. "He… He was on his way out to Peckham to find me. He'd- He and my best friend from uni had managed to track me down and they were coming to collect me. To bring me in."

He lets out a harsh, loud breath. Every muscle in his body feels like it's knotted together.

"He and Victor, they'd been trying to find me for a couple of months," he says. His voice is becoming breathless. His chest feels like it's caught in a vice. "They were… They were determined. It was what initially brought them together you see, even before they became a couple: Me. They met because of me. They were on that train because of **me**. Mycroft wanted me to come and stay with our parents' for a while, he wanted to get me out of the city and he was willing to do anything to make that happen, as was his, his-"

Sherlock finds, to his dismay, that he can't bring himself to say what his best friend had been to his brother.

The words seem like blasphemy on his tongue, cynic that he is.

"Were they both killed?" Molly asks gently and he nods.

The silence which stretches out feels awfully, awfully loud.

Quite without his meaning to, he tightens his grip on her. He's not entirely certain why he's telling her this.

"Both were dead on arrival," he says. "I didn't know- I was off my fucking tits somewhere when one of my brother's people found me. Brought me in."

He grimaces.

"Anthea made it quite clear what she thought of me, when it happened," he says tightly. "She was the one who had to, who had to tell my parents, you see…"

Molly winces. "She had to tell your parents they'd lost a child."

"Yes." He can't bring himself to look at her, even though he feels like he's clinging onto her. "She had to tell my parents, and Victor's, that their sons were dead because of me." His throat works, his teeth gnashing together as he tries to make himself, to absolutely force himself not to get upset, not to lose control when he has no right to it, when he has no reason.

He doesn't get to weep or mourn, he reminds himself savagely.

He doesn't get to lose control after what he's done.

He must say something to that effect though, for the next moment he can feel soft arms holding him tightly, rocking him as a sweet voice murmurs soothing things and he can't help it, he can't let himself- He doesn't deserve it, he knows he doesn't-

He feels a stab of bewilderment that he even got here, considering what happened today.

But though he tells himself it's ridiculous- he even hears his own voice say the words- Molly doesn't pull away from him. She doesn't even seem all that shocked by it.

She just holds him tightly, rocking him and murmuring that it's alright, that everything's going to be ok. That she's here for him and she's going nowhere and he can let himself go, truly he can.

So for the first time in five years Sherlock does just that, letting her hold him, letting her soothe him. It should be abhorrent, her closeness, but it isn't and though he tries to summon the requisite outrage at himself it simply doesn't come. Rather that sentiment from earlier, it twists through him, steals through him, trailing lies and half-truths, things he knows can't be true, in its wake-

It's all right, those feelings whisper. It's alright that you've said this.

It's all right that you've told her- You've done your penance, you can have your enjoyment now.

And though he knows he should be a professional, Sherlock can't bring himself to push that voice- or Molly- away. He can't begin to make himself disbelieve it.

If there's a way to have this woman's comfort then he'll do that, even if it means explaining the worst thing he's ever done. It's not like she's complaining.

He can see Irene behind his eyelids though, shaking her head. Sighing. "You foolish boy," she whispers-

But it doesn't matter. _She's not Molly._


	9. The Boyfriend Experience

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE: THE BOYFRIEND EXPERIENCE**

* * *

Molly feels it acutely, the moment he stops fighting.

For he stills. Quiets.

She's not sure what to make of it.

He stares at her for a moment which feels like an eternity, but then-

Without any warning, his arms wrap around her and he pulls her tight against him, his chest flush with hers. His hands bunch into fists, snarling and tugging at the fabric of her dress and he pulls her around, her knees slipping instinctively down to straddle his hips even as he presses into her, his mouth finding her own for a long, hard kiss.

She looks at him askance, about to ask whether he's alright, but before she can his mouth is on hers again, insistent and fierce and wanted.

"No," he says. "No talking- I know I can make you want this-"

"You don't need to make me want this," she pants.

 _Despite how unexpected the last few minutes have been, he really,_ _ **really**_ _doesn't._

"Yes," he hisses, and the smile he shoots her feral and dark and unlike any look she's ever seen from him. "Yes, I do."

And before she can question him, before she can ask him about the things he's just told her, he kisses her again, long and hard and deep. The sensation, the sheer need in it, knocks her off-balance, her mind blanking. She's not even sure she remembers her own name.

This pleasure is so much more intense, even, than what came before.

Before she even realises what she's doing she's kissing him back, mouths and tongues and limbs tangling messily together. Her body singing with the feel of him, the knowledge that such recently-discovered pleasure is once again nearly in her grasp tossing aside anything remotely resembling sense.

 _She has been sensible,_ her body whispers, _for quite long enough._

She must take what he's offering while she can.

So she does: She answers him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. They're both breathing loudly now and she finds she can't stop to draw breath, can't stop touching him, can't stop feeling and sensing and caressing, not for anything-

And then suddenly she's on her back, his body on top of hers, his mouth at her throat as his hands slide up underneath her skirt tug it up over her bare hips, her bare legs.

The thumb of one hand finds her clit, presses wetly against it even as his other hand finds her dress's zipper and yanks at it, grunting in frustration when it doesn't give.

She scrambles to help, hands finding the zipper and pulling it open; She has barely a moment to realise it's free and then he's yanking the damn thing over her head roughly, pulling it up and tossing it away.

The cool air of the room hits her bare skin, hands coming up instinctively to cover herself but he shakes his head. Takes her face in his hands, holding her by her cheeks as he angles her head and kisses her. She can smell herself on his fingers.

"I want to see," he says, "I want to see all of you-"

Molly's never had anyone say anything like that before. Not about her, not about plain little Molly Hooper. She'd not been prepared for this for this sort of… emotion from him, and she's not prepared for the effect it has on her. Because it makes her feel confused. Aroused. Fierce and aching and wanted. So, so wanted. And that's a thing she's not felt, she suddenly realises, not in years.

She doesn't know what to make of it, of herself. Of him.

She doesn't know what to make of anything that's happened since she stepped into this room.

"Let me see you," he's muttering, "I want to see you- I want to see, see-"

"You want to see this?"

And without giving herself time to think, to question, she reaches behind and unclasps her bra. Tosses it away.

She lowers her gaze to the bed as she does it.

She still feels it acutely though, when his gaze lands on her bare skin. She dares to raise her eyes, watches him through her lashes as his pupils dilate, tongue darting out to wet his lip. Heat swarms up her skin, a blush that's half arousal and half embarrassment making her close her eyes, turn her face from his expression. The sensation of his gaze on her is as obvious- as direct- as his hands and mouth though and closing her eyes does not make it go away. Rather it feels more acute, her memory and imagination supplying her with images of what his expression looks like, how he's staring at her-

And then she feels it: His mouth, his delicious, warm, wet mouth latches onto to one achingly tight nipple, suckling and licking, his arms tightening once more around her as he pushes her down onto her back, his other hand sliding down to press between her warm, slippery thighs.

Her entire body lights up with the feel of it, the warm, delicious slide of flesh against flesh setting her on fire. Making her moan.

 _Wanted,_ she thinks. _Wanted, wanted, wanted._

 _It's been so long._

She lets out a low, strangled sigh at the feel of it, the sensation turning sharper as she spreads her thighs, pulls him tighter against her. His other hand curls around her calf, sliding her leg upwards so that her sole snakes along his back. The newer position opens her out as her previous one did not, pinning her beneath him. She feels a flash of alarm go through her at this new vulnerability and he slows, brows knit as he stares down at her. For a moment he looks utterly confused but then-

"Tell me," he says quietly. His nose nudges hers; He presses his hips into her, the tip of his cock poking against her inner thigh. It feels tender and lewd at the same time.

She's surprised to feel he's already half-hard again, refractory periods usually being what they were.

"Tell you what?" she asks and even as she says the words, she knows they sound stupid. Vapid. Flustered.

She's usually so much more sensible than this.

"Tell me what you want," he says. His voice has such, such need in it. "Tell me what to do." He shakes his head, something a lot like confusion moving through his eyes. "I never- It has to be about you, it has to be about what you want-"

"I want you."

He shakes his head fiercely. "That's not enough."

Molly slides her hands free, takes his face in her palms as he had done for her mere moments ago. "Then what would be, Will?" she asks. Again he shakes his head. Frowns. "What is this all about, really?"

He opens his mouth to answer, to explain, but nothing comes out.

He looks so… so frustrated, with himself, she can't help but think. He looks almost lost.

"There's… There's all this, this _stuff_ inside me," he says eventually. He sounds utterly confused. "I don't know what to do with it, how to get it out."

"And you think you can fuck it out?" The words come out more tartly than she intended.

If he hears the edge to her voice though, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"I don't know." He kisses her, hard and sweet, driving the breath from her. The sense. For a split second she truly can't remember which way is up or down. But then-

"I give people what they want," he says. "I know how to do that. I know how to fuck-"

Understanding dawns. "But you don't know how to do anything else, do you?" She gestures to their entwined bodies. "You told me something personal and now, now-"

Without warning he moves so that their positions are reversed, him beneath her now as he had been when they first lay down. She huffs out a sigh of surprised- all that air separating them- and he shakes his head, slides his palm up her belly. Across her left breast.

It feels awfully good, his long fingers closing around her, squeezing.

But it doesn't feel as good as when she rights herself, takes back a little control. She shifts so that they're now both sitting up, face to face, his hand still at her breast. She lays her forehead on his and in that moment she realises… He's trembling. They both are.

It feels so freeing, them being in the same state, together.

For a moment there's silence. Stillness. The closeness takes some of the urgency- the danger- out of his expression. Now he breathes and she can feel it against her face, one of her hands snaking up to wrap around the wrist of the hand at her breast.

His pulse is thrumming beneath her thumb.

So she leans in, kissing his cheek. His earlobe. His fingers tighten on her breast, his free arm circling around to grind her tighter against him. His free hands splays messily against the bare flesh of her arse and her own dig gently into his shoulders. His nape. His hair.

It feels good. It feels _wanted_.

"You're right," he says quietly. He sound breathless. His tongue slides along her throat, his teeth find her ear and bite. "I don't know what else to do. I've never… The client always tells me what to do. They always let me pretend."

She frowns at him. "Pretend what?"

"Pretend everything."

She looks at him askance and she can see him working up to something, something she suspects she won't like. Or might love. Either choice is really rather terrifying.

She sees the moment inspiration hits though. It's rather a lovely sight.

"There's a thing you can do in this game," he says. He addresses the words to her breasts, punctuating every few with kisses and licks and nips. He won't look at her and somehow… Somehow that feels more intimate than his gaze might. "It's… It's… It's a multi-day role-play, typically for a few days at a time," he's saying. His voice grows more comfortable, more controlled, as he speaks. "We call it The Boyfriend Experience."

She frowns. She's heard of The Girlfriend Experience before, where men pay a prostitute to go on dates. To pretend to care about them, for the duration of the arrangement.

 _Is that what Will wants with her?_

When she doesn't speak he rushes on, the words tumbling one over the other. It's not just the pressure of wanting to be inside her that's making him speak, she can see that.

It's his wanting- maybe needing- a reason to want to be inside her that he's getting at and she can't help the thrill that his attraction gives her. She doesn't want to.

"You're, you're uncomfortable with the trappings of my profession," he's saying haltingly. "You've-No Molly, you don't need to apologise, you've not been insulting or rude. I just… I told you something and now it's awkward and this, this would make it a lot less awkward and it's on Meena's credit anyway and I could… I could…"

He looks right at her.

"I could show you how it's supposed to feel," he says quietly. "How… How it would be, with a partner who understands you. Who understands what they have in you." He reaches over to kiss her and this time it's gentle. Almost chaste. "When the week is over," he says, "you'd know, absolutely, what you liked. What you wanted.

"What you deserved.

"And I'd… I'd have fulfilled my professional obligation, in the best way I know how. I would… I would have done what I always do. What's comfortable for me.

"Would that… Would that prove amenable to you?"

And he looks at her, really looks at her. Those quicksilver eyes are electric.

Molly gulps, tries to gather her thoughts. Tries to be sensible and serious and, and stringless but all she can see is how good she feels. How much she wants this. How much he appears to want this.

She's given more for less, she thinks. She's bent far further backwards for a man's comfort zone, and he hadn't even managed to make her feel a tenth of the pleasure this one has.

He hadn't even bloody bothered to ask.

And she can feel it, that delight in being wanted, in being looked at and fucked and liked and being able to give him the same. It's actually astonishingly pleasant, is what it is.

So she hushes Will, silences him with a kiss. He returns it, without worry or unwillingness or discomfort.

 _This is, as he had said, something he knows how to do, after all._

And then, when they both have to breathe, she pulls him to her. Lets him lay his head on her shoulder, his arms still curled protectively around her, making her feel so warm. So safe and wanted. It feels bother easier and more difficult, this new tenderness. But that doesn't stop Molly from moving, from pressing her entire body against Will's. His heat, his nearness, scorches her; He hisses in pleasure at the contact, nipping at her throat, shifting them so her weight's draped over his hips. His thighs.

She can feel his cock, completely hard now, pressing up against her wet, ready opening and when he looks at her this time, she feels not a sliver of doubt about how to proceed.

So she feels blindly about, pulls open the same bedside dresser that he had before. Her hand finds the condom packet, pulls it open and slides it on him even as their bodies keep pressing together, rasping together, the texture of his flesh and hers delicious.

The sensation is almost better than the feeling of his mouth on hers or his cock within her.

When the condom's fully on she pulls him to her, switches their positions so that now her back's to the headboard. Her thighs lie akimbo, him between them, and with a slow, careful press he pushes inside her again. Fills her again. The ache of him is sweet and tender. Their eyes lock, their breaths catch but this time everything's slower. Gentler. Neither one of them is driving on the other, neither of them seem to be in charge.

No matter what he may say he wants, she's not going to tell him what to do.

It works: He hisses and moves. She matches him. His belly and chest press against hers, jostling her, her skin lighting up in constellations of pleasure and pressure and sensation as their bodies hitch and move, as they push together.

He grips the headboard with one hand and her hip with the other, keeping her close to him.

Molly shivers at the feeling: So much skin, so much flesh, so much pleasure. _So much that the rest of the world feels entirely unreal and far away._ She's always loved this feeling, someone held tight in her arms. Someone's skin and breath against hers. It's what she's always thought sex is supposed to feel like, when it's good. When it's the best it can be. It should feel like you're both in it together.

And then she feels it, feels him.

He opens his eyes, looks up at her, and it's like… It's like she can see right inside of him.

Molly gasps, surprised. Something twists inside her, some powerful emotion, sharp and liquid and intense. She's had this experience only once before, with Tom in the early days. She'd looked down into his eyes when he was buried inside her and she'd seen… She'd seen him. Not his job or his haircut or his expensively well-thought-out bohemian suit or any of the other things he wanted her to see, the things he'd willingly shown the world.

No, she'd seen _him_.

She had, in that moment, seen him rather clearly.

And she had, in that moment, thought that she'd fallen in love with him, wanker that he turned out to be.

Something similar grips her now, as she stares down at Will. Something equally poignant. Not love- she's not so foolish- but tenderness. Understanding. The realisation that she's seeing something people rarely get to see in one another.

This is not the face that anyone shows the world.

And then he flinches and closes his eyes, pulls her closer even as he bars that insight into him to her. He starts mumbling things, asking her to fuck him, asking her to finish him. It's rambling and incoherent, even as it pounds its way inside her heart. Her blood. It is, in its own way, as seductive as his handsome face, his deep voice and the things he swears he knows how to do.

So she takes him, lets him take her. She can feel him deep inside her, pulling out and then pressing in. Widening her with pleasure. With kindness and patience and grace. Her climax comes suddenly, a sharp, emotional pang that darts out through her body like firecrackers and then she's kissing him, holding him through his.

Her nails dig into his shoulders so sharply they leave marks, but it feels welcome, right, _natural,_ to do such a thing for him.

He comes apart, her name on his lips, his head buried against her breasts and all she can think is that she wants this. She wants this so much. She wants it to continue.

And in that moment she realises- She'll do anything to make sure that it does: Caution led her to Tom, bravado led her to Will.

 _She knows which choice she prefers right now._

* * *

When he's caught his breath and come down he turns to her. He's covered in sweat, still shivering, and it makes her feel so strong to hold him in her arms.

When she kisses him she tastes salt and flesh.

"Was that a yes?" he asks faintly. "Was that a yes to my proposal?"

She looks at him and for a moment, just a moment, her common sense again urges caution. Worry. She's not long out of a relationship and this man is a new and unknown quantity, for all the pleasure he makes her feel. For all the things he's told her today.

But then-

"You shouldn't talk about proposals to a girlfriend you've only known a week," she says and she sees his face crinkle into a smile, bright and boyish. There's just a sliver of relief in it. There is no worry or darkness and she tells herself that's a good thing.

"I'll take that under advisement, darling," he says. "Now come here."

And he opens up his arms to her. Wraps them around her.

He turns them so they're on their sides, him spooned against her back.

Molly turns in his embrace and nestles in, pressing her nose to his throat and soothing her misgivings. Dismissing them. He knows what he's doing, she's sure.

 _As he's already said, he's a professional._


	10. Annual Leave

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN: ANNUAL LEAVE**

* * *

They have sex through most of the afternoon and into the night.

It's energetic. Sweaty. Satisfying.

When Molly wakes up the next morning it's bright outside, so early that the light's still tinted blue. So early there's barely any traffic.

It must be near dawn, she thinks.

She sighs when she sees it, shifts herself onto her side; At the movement Will's arm tightens unconsciously around her and he grumbles something, frowning in his sleep. She turns to him, leaning in. Brushing the hair from his face.

 _He's asking her not to go_ , she belatedly realises.

She smiles to see it, wonder at the sheer beauty of the man next to her, at the sheer beauty of the tiredness and satisfaction she can feel deep within her bones, making her grin brightly.

She feels almost giddy; the pleasure of last night, the freedom, it's unlike anything she's ever felt. She knows it probably doesn't speak well of her other relationships but she's genuinely never enjoyed herself that much before. Normally she dreads the morning after sex, dreads the hesitation in her, the disappointment in her partner. She always feels like she's walking on eggshells, waiting for them to illuminate the ways in which they think she's failed to match up and for that reason she knows she becomes quiet. Demure. Silent.

It had been a particular problem for she and Tom- Well, that and his fucking other people.

She hadn't wanted it to happen, hadn't wanted to turn into this stern, frowning, sour person but she hadn't known what else to do: The sense that she hadn't measured up had been inescapable. Constant.

 _She'd always been left feeling like she was somehow… wanting. At fault._

At that thought she frowns, sighs. She doesn't want to think about her ex fiancé (or any of her exes, for that matter) and yet how can she not? One look at Will and she practically hopped into his bed; In the last twenty four hours she's had more sex with an escort than she had during the last month of her engagement. She should be ashamed of herself, and yet-

Things hadn't been this good with Tom, she thinks.

 _Things hadn't been half this good._

Her stomach twists guiltily at the thought, the knowledge that she's only being honest making her feel worse.

She should feel something different for the man she was willing to marry.

But she can't help it, isn't willing to lie to herself. There hadn't been this degree of attraction with Tom for one thing, she thinks. There hadn't been this sense of freedom, for another. The very nature of her arrangement with Will makes it easier to say things, easier to ask for what she wants; She doesn't have to worry about a delicate male ego now, or hurting the feelings of someone she loves.

And that, she realises, is incredibly freeing.

No, all she has to do is ask for what she wants and he'll give it. If there's something he won't countenance then he's clearly more than happy to communicate that. At the thought Molly lets out a small, disbelieving laugh; It's hard to accept that she can have a more honest relationship with a prostitute than she did with the man she was going to marry-

And maybe that's why you leaving your engagement was actually a blessing in disguise, she tells herself.

Maybe all your so-called "issues," were just about you not having found the right partner.

She frowns at that, bites her lip, not comfortable with where her thoughts are heading. She's always told herself so staunchly that a man like Tom and the life he could give her were what she wanted that the thought she might have been mistaken gives her pause. But then Will murmurs something in his sleep. Twists his head sharply. His brows draw together and his body tautens, lips drawn back from his teeth in a fierce scowl.

He starts muttering, head shaking from side to side, murmuring about someone, someone called "Mikey,"-

Molly reaches for him, her own situation forgotten. She strokes her hands along his shoulders. His chest. Her fingers find their way to his hair and card through it even as she hums soothingly against his throat. "I'm here," she whispers gently. "It's all alright, I'm here."

When he doesn't answer she drapes her arms around his waist, pulling him into her.

For a moment he resists, trying to pull away and though she doesn't want to she pulls back, makes to let him move away from her-

Before she can though his eyes open, blue-green sharpness flashing to hers.

Within the space of second he has her on her back, her hands pressed into the bed at the side of her hips, his entire body on top of her and pushing her into the bed.

His expression is confused, as if he doesn't recognise her at all, or what he's doing here.

It doesn't hurt and she's not afraid but it doesn't feel very pleasant, his body on top of hers, it's making breathing a little difficult and his expression is so mystified-

And then she sees it, recognition moving through his features. Realisation.

He lets out a small, "oh," of understanding and releases her wrists, moves so that he's not on top of her.

He pulls the covers away and sits up, his head in his hands. His back to her on the bed.

Uncertain of where his mind has gone to- and yet confident in her ability to provide comfort- Molly sits up too. Gives him a moment to catch his breath. His shoulders are so tense they're almost shaking.

When his breathing has eased she hesitantly lays a hand on his back, the gesture questioning. Soft.

She doesn't want to pressure him.

For a moment he stiffens and she makes to take her hand away, but then he shakes his head. Huffs out a long breath.

He turns to her and his smile is wan. Wry.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "For the theatrics."

Molly smiles in return, relieved that he seems to be ok, and scooches closer to him on the bed. When she's near enough he reaches out and pulls her to him by her elbow, her chest colliding with his back until she wraps her arms around his torso, his arm squashed warmly against her breasts.

The gesture makes him sigh.

"Did I give you a fright?" he asks and she nods. Presses a kiss to his shoulder.

It feels… It feels almost like they might be a couple, the gesture comes so easily to them both.

"Nightmares," he murmurs, though she didn't ask. "Don't normally sleep over, so I don't normally have witnesses-"

Molly thinks she understands. "Bad for business?" she asks and he looks at her askance.

There's something a little… unwelcoming in his gaze.

"I thought we'd agreed what this is," he says and his voice is trying for even. It's not quite making it. "No customers, not in our universe-"

She cocks her head, confused. "Is this another universe?"

"Has to be." He nods. Takes her hand and presses a kiss to her palm. The rest is mumbled as he kisses his way up her arm. "The only way I'd be in bed with someone like you, being comforted by someone like you, is if we're in another universe…"

Molly opens her mouth, about to object- _what on earth is she supposed to say to **that**?_ \- but before she can he grins at her suddenly, diamond-sharp and surprising.

Without any warning he dives on her, rolling her so that once again she's on her back and he's on top of her, though this time there's no distress in his eyes.

"It's pretend, remember?" he says, voice low and rough and his words are so playful and so relieved that Molly can't help it. She smiles back at him. Nods. She can eel him getting hard again- where on Earth did he pick up that refractory period?- and the sensation warms her blood.

She's starting to get wet.

A sly, wanton grin splits his face and she realises he knows where her mind is going.

In fairness, she finds herself thinking, it's not really that much of a stretch.

For a moment he stares down at her, his nose to hers, his eyes mock-contrite. "What can I do, to get you back to sleep?" he asks innocently, that lower lip jutting out in a pout. "Now that I've gotten you so thoroughly awake?"

His hands are inching up her legs, fingers stroking. Kneading.

He doesn't pinch and he doesn't squeeze and Molly finds she likes that so much.

"I don't know," she says and it's embarrassing, how breathless her voice sounds. How ready. She doesn't think she's ever sounded so… eager as she does with him. "I don't know what you need to do-"

"Maybe I should try to relax you."

And he moves down to her breasts, his hands coming up to palm them. Knead them. His thumbs work the flesh, circling and tugging lightly at the nipples until Molly lets out a loud, low moan.

She sounds so… lewd to her own ears.

Will shifts, one knee pressing between her legs with surprising accuracy even as his mouth joins his fingers on her nipples, his lips and tongue suckling and licking and working her. Tasting her. Her breasts lift and shift with the weight of his attentions; One hand strokes down her body to find her mound, thumb teasing at her clit while his teeth nip lightly at her her breast's underside.

"Spread your thighs for me, darling," he mutters and mindless, breathless, Molly does just that.

He laughs low in his throat when she does and she stiffens, worry moving through her.

She doesn't like to be laughed at- she's been laughed at before- but when he looks down at her his expression is surprisingly soft. Understanding.

"You're good at this, do you know that?" he says coaxingly and she shakes her head, confused.

She's never been told such a thing before. She doesn't know why he's saying it.

"I'm not surprised," he murmurs softly. "You have such beautiful, perfect tits." He kisses them. "Such a perfect little swell of an arse." His hand comes up to gently knead her rump. "Such a lovely little mouth and such a sweet, clever brain and such a perfect willingness to give me what I need, it's all I can do to laugh at my good fortune…"

And he kisses her deeply, his lips effectively cutting off all her questions.

Within moments they're tangled so tightly together that Molly's astonished they can even breathe.

And just like she had earlier, she gives in to it. Lets the pleasure carry her away. Will works her with his lips and his tongue, mouth on hers. Hands all over her body. His fingers stroke down to find her cunt and when he presses the heel of his hand into her she gasps. Bucks against him. She lets out a long string of incoherent curse-words, each sentence more nonsensical than the last.

"Good girl," he murmurs against her lips and though she suspects she should feel patronised, her cheeks redden at his words. She smiles shyly.

Her grin must please him because he shoots her one that matches it.

And then he turns his attention back to her breasts. Her lips. When he has her mewling and pleading he leaves her upper torso, brings his mouth to that warm, wet, ready place between her thighs. He hooks one leg over his shoulder and then he eats her out, gaze fixed on hers, his jaw and tongue and lips working her until she's thrashing underneath him. Until her fingers are tangled in his hair and she's panting out his name.

"Will." It sounds like a litany. "Please, please, oh please, Will…"

Civility, politeness, cleverness- Everything abandons her. She works herself against his mouth. His tongue. His face.

She doesn't care about anything except the feel of what he's doing to her and what she can do to him.

The bed shakes with the force of them. It rocks. It creaks. She can feel herself climbing the precipice; There's a few moments of madness, of stillness, the eye of the storm reached and then… Then…

Orgasm overwhelms her. It's a wave of pleasure pulling her under. She's adrift in an ocean of it. Cut loose. Set free and floating.

Nothing, she finds herself thinking, (when she can think again), has ever felt this good.

It take her a moment to realise that she's tugged Will's head up to her own. That she's kissing him fiercely, that she can taste herself on his lips. His tongue. He laughs that low bass bark of his again and then he's pulling her to him, positioning himself with his back to the headboard.

He takes his thick, ready cock in his hand and strokes it, tugs it.

He's rough with himself in his arousal.

"Fuck me, darling," he says and at the profanity Molly's stomach tightens into knots. She's confused by her own reaction. And yet- "Fuck me like you want me," he says it again and his voice is breathless. Helpless. Aching.

It's the single most arousing thing Molly thinks anyone has ever said to her.

She hears her voice answer, apparently of its own volition. "Beg," she says and there's nothing soft or gentle in her tone now.

 _Where did **that** come from?_ she thinks.

 _Aren't I supposed to be boring, prudish Molly Hooper?_

Will's head flicks up to hers, bliss flooding his expression he likes what he hears. "Please," he says, and his voice is taut. Earnest. "Please, darling. Please, fuck me."

And he shifts himself, pressing against her. Into her.

There's desperation in his gaze now. Neediness.

It's so bloody beautiful, Molly thinks.

Steadying herself with her hand on his shoulder, she lowers herself onto his prick. Takes him inside her. She's becoming used to him and though the stretch is a slight burn she hisses in pleasure at the feel of him. The fullness of it.

"You feel so bloody good," she murmurs and he nods.

He kisses her forehead.

"You feel bloody good too," he grins, his lip bitten fiercely.

His body is shaking with the pressure of holding himself still.

"Like this, please," he murmurs and his hands come up to her hips, his arms taking some of her weight as he pulls her slightly up. Then down. As he shows her how he wants her to move for him.

"Do you want me to ride you?" she asks and he nods. His pupils are dilated, expression dazed. Delicious.

"Fuck me until I can't remember my own name," he says and Molly nods fiercely. Does as he asks her. She grinds herself up and down on his cock, her breasts bouncing, her breath gasping. His arms tighten around her and he holds her too him. Squeezes her.

The sense of flesh against flesh, of body against body, is almost more than she can bear.

It doesn't take long, pressing and gasping together. His hips piston and hers match him and then orgasm rises in her a second time, washes through her. She's still gasping when Will's own climax comes, his head jerked back and his mouth open wide. She feels it, his hips bucking. His movements ragged and desperate. The heat and wetness of it floods into her, liquid trickling down her thighs as she holds him through the aftershocks. They seem to go on forever.

They're both shivering- shaken- by the time he's through.

His mouth finds hers, his arms going lax around her and she can feel it. The force of what they just did together. The sheer pole-axing power of it.

Perhaps for the first time in her life she realises why some people chase after this sensation so hard.

When they've both stopped shaking he kisses her. Pulls her close and cuddles her into him, just like he's really her boyfriend. Just like they're really together.

"Bareback," he murmurs and his voice is hoarse. Raspy. "Haven't done that in a while- Sorry." He presses a kiss to her crown. "I got a little carried away, there."

"Me too." Molly knows she should be worried- And she might be, if she wasn't on the pill, if she hadn't seen his medical records. If she didn't know how to get access to the morning after pill. Instead she sighs. Smiles. Cuddles closer to him. "Don't worry about it," she says, and again she thinks it: It's almost like she's just had sex with her boyfriend.

The boyfriend she actually wanted.

They fall back asleep, their arms around one another and a smile on their faces.

They seem to be so… at ease with one another, already and it doesn't occur to either of them what a problem that might be.

* * *

They awake later and order breakfast. Feed one another toast and coffee and scrambled eggs.

When they're sufficiently sated Sherlock introduces Molly to the joys of shower sex, an adventure which leaves both of them wet but not necessarily any cleaner.

He knows the thought of it is going to make him grin like an idiot the whole damn day.

When they've dried themselves and dressed he pulls out his phone. Looks up what's going on in London and asks what she might be interested in seeing.

After all, a good boyfriend brings his girlfriend out- It's about more than just sex.

Molly laughs when he tells her this, takes his smiling playfulness at face value. She even gives him some suggestions, the sort of things which Sherlock is surprised to realise he actually might enjoy. After all, there's the new Goya exhibit in the National Gallery. The retrospective on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the Museum of London. And there's always the V&A, the Science Museum. Even the Hunterian probably has something new in…

When he says he's never been to that place before, Molly laughs and kisses him. Tells him she doesn't mind seeing it again, if that's what he wants.

She even knows which underground line they need to take to get there and well, that is pretty much that. Decision made. Off they go.

Arm in arm- except for the random moments when his hand sneaks down to rest on her arse- the two of them sign out of the Dorchester and make their way to Hyde Park Corner Tube station-

While several thousand miles away, in Kuala Lumpur, Irene Adler stares worriedly at her mobile and wonders why her friend Sherlock isn't answering.

She hasn't long to ponder, however, before her employer arrives and she hides the phone.

 _She's not letting him take **this one** away._


	11. Attractive Nuisance

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN: ATTRACTIVE NUISANCE**

* * *

 _Central London_

 _That Day_

The Hunterian turns into The John Soan Museum, which turns into St Martin-in-the-Fields, which turns into a walk through Temple and along the Embankment that evening.

By the time they reach Parliament, Sherlock's amazed Molly's feet aren't aching.

Of course, she did wear rather pretty, rather sensible little flats so he supposes he shouldn't be.

"I wanted to wear heels," she says wryly when she sees him staring at them, "but I didn't think it was a good idea.

"Too much chance I'd end up flat on my face, going by previous experience."

Sherlock laughs and she crosses her arms, a mock-pout jutting out her lip. It's a surprisingly pretty expression and he can't help it: He reaches down. Kisses her.

That's what a boyfriend would do in that situation, he tells himself.

An image flashes through his mind, Minister Winstead as she climbs on top of him, orders him to suck on her breasts like a virginal schoolboy and instantly he pushes the thought away.

He doesn't want to think of that with Molly in front of him.

She sighs and leans up into him, unwilling to break contact even as he backs away, rests her forehead on his chest, fingers curling at his nape.

He's not entirely certain she knows she's doing it but it sets something rather… warm, burning at his sternum.

"That was nice," she murmurs softly, arms tightening around his neck, and he scoffs.

"Nice?" he sniffs. " _Nice?_ I must be losing my touch…"

And without any warning he presses her against the grey brick behind them, sliding his body against hers greedily. Hungrily. This time he really, really kisses her and not even the car full of yelling teenagers who drive past and throw an empty can of Heineken at them can stop him.

Nothing can stop him touching her like this.

Molly gives as good as gets, her arms tightening around him, her hands in his hair. Her tongue slides nimbly between his lips and when his own chases hers back into her mouth she sucks on it. She does the same to his lower lip, her little teeth worrying at it until it's pleasantly plump and sore.

It does some rather unexpected things to his pulse, does that, and it's not because it's the first time it's been done to him.

 _No, it's because it's the first time it's **her** doing it._

When they break apart Sherlock realises that he's smiling so widely his face hurts. It feels… Odd, to be so unguarded. So free. He hasn't felt that way in so long.

He shouldn't be disappearing so fully into a role, he thinks with a touch of disquiet.

Too bloody right, his inner Irene tartly responds.

Molly looks up at him though, her eyes dark and wide and curious and instantly he pushes the thoughts away. Dismisses his misgivings.

This is, after all, nothing more than a role-playing exercise.

So, taking her hand in his, he pulls her away from the wall. Presses a kiss to her palm and starts running through his knowledge of local restaurants. Nowhere too expensive, he tells himself, it will make her uncomfortable.

He doesn't want her to tense up, not when things are going so well.

They cross the river, leaving the Embankment behind and wandering towards Whitehall. Crowds of city boys brush by them, on their way to the Tube or whatever debauched watering hole they want to frequent tonight and when Molly looks a little uncomfortable with the press of bodies Sherlock winds an arm around her shoulder. Tucks her into his side.

She's warm there, and protected, and when she looks up at him her smile is soft.

* * *

They find a quiet restaurant, an Italian place named Angelo's.

The pony-tailed maître d grins at them as they walk in and makes the most outrageous fuss over Molly as she sits down.

He winks at Sherlock and sends a bottle of astonishingly mediocre Chianti to their table. Sends over candles, flowers and his astonishingly mediocre violinist too. Sherlock's tempted to tell the man to bugger off- he knows he's merely angling for a good tip- but one look at the enrapt expression on Molly's face puts paid to that notion: She's delighted.

She grins at him, so bright and so, so honest in her pleasure that he can't help but find himself delighted too.

He wants this realisation to be tedious but he finds it rather… pleasant instead.

And so he holds his peace. Lets himself enjoy things. The food is surprisingly good and there's candlelight. The soft chatter of the room. Even the music is unannoying- though sixties Italian pop ballads really aren't his thing. He asks Molly the sorts of things he imagines anyone on an early date with a lovely woman would ask: where she went to school? What she does for a living? When she tells him- with no small amount of embarrassment- that she's a pathologist he pricks up his ears in interest.

Once, long ago, he'd wanted to pursue such a career, he tells her.

He doesn't mention that it in choosing his current profession he had knowingly, willingly, given up that goal because… Well, because he hadn't known what else to do.

Nearly overdosing and then being saved by a high-class escort your brother had had dealings with hadn't left him a lot of choices, after all.

She blinks at him, surprised, when he tells her that and he's tempted to ask her whether she thought being on the game was really his childhood dream?

He refrains though. This other universe of theirs, the one where they're a couple and this is all real, that universe requires protection, even if it means giving up his customary sarcasm.

Instead he takes her hand in his across the table. Kisses it as he spins her a yarn about his brother, the investigator. His brother, the spy. He doesn't mention that said brother had to turn those powers on him, but then he doesn't need to.

He's already explained as much, and he will not repeat the story, not even for her.

She listens with warm eyes, a crooked little smile on her lips. Patience and empathy are written all over her face and for the first time in forever Sherlock lets himself feel… human. Wanted, rather than procured. A pleasure, rather than an indulgence.

It's been a long time since he felt it was him rather than the opportunity which he represented, that had earned him his place at the feast.

It is, he must admit, a remarkably good sensation- One he suspects cannot last.

But good things never do, he reminds himself. Just ask Mycroft and Victor.

* * *

When they're finished they make their way to Bond Street, let themselves into the Penthouse Irene keeps for special clients, the one that looks out onto Hyde Park.

Sherlock doesn't tell Molly who it belongs to or why he has a key.

He gets the distinct impression that she already knows though, or has guessed at least some of it; It's in the way her eyes flash to him, lips pursing and then releasing, as if she's figured something out.

She'd make a terrible poker player, he can't help but think.

He takes her coat and leads her into the living room, turns on the fireplace and then hunts through the fridge. He finds a bottle of wine and some cheese. Crackers. Honey. Grapes.

They feed each other with their fingers.

And then, when she's a little more drunk and a lot more relaxed, Molly shyly asks him to bend her over. Fuck her from behind.

"I've always… I've always liked the idea of it," she says, biting her lip. "I just… Well, Tom thought it was-"

"Tom's an arsehole."

The words come out loudly, more belligerent than he expected. He bites them out, irritated and for once unwilling to pretend he's anything but.

She blinks at him, not sure what to make of them, and, well, Sherlock's a little drunk too so he does the unthinkable: He says what he truly means.

"That git wouldn't know what to do with a woman if one walked up and sat in his lap," he says. "He hadn't the first clue what he had in you, and he proved that well enough."

He walks over to her, lays his hands on her shoulders, and when she doesn't pull away he leans down and lays his forehead on hers too.

She's shaking, ever so slightly.

He hates that she still reacts like that at the mention of her ex, and he hates that he shouldn't want her to react that way to him. He hates that her hurt makes him tender, when all it should make him is more professionally adept.

Rather than pursue that thought though, he leans into her. Kisses her cheek gently. She sighs, curling into him. Suddenly she feels awfully soft and awfully small. "You don't need to talk about Tom," he says quietly. Insistently. "And you don't need to justify liking the sort of basic pleasure he was incapable of giving you-"

At this, Molly blinks. Stares at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment. So long, in fact, that he becomes awkwardly aware that he may have overstepped some sort of line.

But then she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, kisses him with such ferocity and determination that it takes his breath away.

They stumble backwards, both messy- amataur- perfect as they hit the floor. When they get there, Molly doesn't let up. She doesn't stop. There's to be no more talking tonight, Sherlock can tell. Instead she takes his clothes away, rather more forcefully and thoroughly than might be expected and not for the first time Sherlock finds himself grateful for the dominance he sees in her, however much she might be unwilling to acknowledge it in herself-

He's always liked a woman who knew how to take charge, he thinks. It's one of the things that makes Molly so dangerous to him.

And dangerous she is. Take charge she does. She tells him what she wants, makes no bones about it this time. She wants to feel him inside her, she says. She wants to feel his chest against her back and his hands between her thighs. She wants to come in this way, this way she's never managed before, this way that's always been denied her.

She wants him to fuck her and for once there's no apology in her voice when she tells him that.

Panting, desperate, he nods. Helps her struggle to her feet. He takes her hands, presses them to the mantelpiece above the fire and then he divests her of her tights. Her underwear. Those pretty little shoes.

He hikes her skirt up, caresses the cheeks of her arse. Her perineum. The pert little circles of her arsehole, though when he touches that she tenses up and instantly he kisses the back of her neck. Strokes her shoulders reassuringly.

That that's not on the menu if it's not what she wants, he tells her and in answer she gives a tiny, relieved sigh.

"If it doesn't please you then I don't do it," he whispers and she nods, breathless and shy and relieved at his words. She is somehow confident in her diffidence; She's learning to trust that he'll do as she asks him, at least that's what Sherlock thinks.

The notion makes him smile.

So he soothes her. Strokes her. He runs his hands all over her pert little arse, her small, sloping shoulders. He kisses and caresses the notches of her spine, carefully sliding his thick heavy cock between the cheeks of her arse, sliding himself up, then down. She's so wet her juices slick against his hardened prick.

And then, when she's wet and ready and he's so hard he's uncomfortable, he rolls a condom on himself and with aching, careful precision he fucks her as she mewls and moans.

 _It's a beautiful cacophony._

"Does this please you?" he keeps asking and she nods. Sighs. She's breathless, aroused. Filthy and beautiful and it feels so good that she wants him. "Does this please you?" he repeats. "You have to say it-"

"Christ, Will, yes," she pants. "I want you. I want you so bloody much I can't see straight.

"Now please shut up and fuck me."

And she laughs, him joining her after a moment. Their bodies move together, the heat of the open fire scorching. Aching. He buries his fingers in the thatch of wet curls at the apex of her thighs and it's wonderful... She hisses out his name and It. Is. Bliss.

Her breasts sway with every thrust. Her flesh wobbles and shudders with the force of their movements. His tallness forces her up onto her toes, her head drooping low as he presses inside her and she straightens her arms, takes more weight on them, just to give him something to press against. It feels divine. When she comes it's loud but when he comes it's louder. They collapse together, breathless and laughing again, and as he kisses her he feels so…. Free. So open.

He'd almost forgotten that sex could feel like that.

They curl up together in front of the fire and he lets sleep claim him. Her hand is curled softly around his cock, his around her wrist. She pulls his head against her breast and he can hear her heart beat. It's so bloody soothing.

His last conscious thought before he falls into oblivion is that he hasn't felt the need to look at his mobile all day.

* * *

This process is repeated, the next day and the next.

Each day they leave the flat to venture into the city but they still end up collapsed together at the end of the night.

It's an easy pleasure, a sort of Neverland of experience. Neither his place nor hers. Neither his life nor hers. It's a holiday for both of them and Sherlock's happy to curl up inside it.

He's happy to let this be his existence for a while.

And so the days pass, nearly a week in point of fact, and he doesn't let himself think that this will end soon.

He doesn't let himself think about the fact that this is a business relationship, not some bubble universe.

And then, as perhaps he'd known it would, the outside world breaks in.

* * *

It's all his phone's fault.

It all kicks off because he finally decides to look at his bloody phone

It's not that he's been hiding from it, per se, it's that, that, well he couldn't be expected to go trawling through his other appointments when he's with a client, now could he?

Molly deserves his full attention, at least that's what he tells himself, and that's what Molly's been getting.

So he turns off his phone and wilfully refuses to check it. He arranged for this week to be free and he's glad he did.

There's nothing he could imagine that would be worth interrupting this.

But then Friday's coming around, and Friday's the day he managed to stagger the appointments of the three clients he never puts off- Lady Smallwood, Minister Winstead and the well-known television journalist Sarah Donovan. He'd already arranged to see them all back to back, the better to give his evening to Molly and their rapidly-diminishing time together-

It's the only time he'll be in The Dorchester this week.

Except now he doesn't want to see the other women, he doesn't want to break character and script though he knows without asking that Molly has no problem with his doing so.

No, the problem is his, he must admit it.

He's losing himself inside this thing because he wants to- And that, he knows, is unacceptable.

So, with a martyred sigh, he goes looking for his phone.

It's a measure of how distracted he's been that it takes him ages to even find it: He's normally so attached to it that it might as well be a phantom limb. But he has to search, has to turn it on in point of fact once he locates it. What he sees when he turns the phone on shocks him though, and knocks thoughts of rescheduling clear out of his head.

For there are four- _**four**_ \- texts from Irene, each containing her safe word. It's her way of asking him to make arrangements for her extraction and she wouldn't be using it unless things had gone, to use the technical term, completely tits up.

Tits up, like that job gone wrong in the Dorchester two years ago.

Tits up like Sherlock knows things can always go, should he or any other person in his profession make a call on a client that doesn't pan out.

Sherlock stares at the phone, guilt and horror curling at his insides. For a moment, it could almost be seven years ago, he thinks. Because-

He's supposed to take care of his friends better than this, he thinks.

 _He's not supposed to fail them again._

And yet, Irene has been texting him- asking for his help- for what looks like days and he had quite forgotten about her…

He rakes through his hardcopy files, tries to find the landline number of the only person Irene would trust to ping her phone and secure her safety. There's nothing of it on any of her computer, her feelings about online security being what they are.

"Nielsen?" he says quietly when the phone picks up. "Richard Nielson? You don't know me, but I'm Will Scott. I'm an… associate of Irene Adler's."

The voice is terse. American. "I know who you are, Mr. Holmes," it says.

Sherlock blinks, surprised and uncomfortable with that revelation.

He hasn't been called by his given name in years.

"Yes, well," he stammers, rattled, "Irene told me I should tell you… She told me to tell you the opera won't suit her tonight. She said you'd know what that means."

There's a sharp intake of breath. The sound of traffic whispers in the background of the call, but then-

"Where?" Nielsen asks.

"Kuala Lumpur," Sherlock answers quietly. "At least, that's where she told me she was going- I don't know the name of the client, but then she doesn't usually spread that knowledge around."

Nielsen swears quietly under his breath. "I'm going to need the make and model of her phone, as well as her number and her PIN," he says. His is not the voice of a man used to brooking disagreement. "You reckon you can get those for me, Mr. Holmes?"

His tone is ever so slightly condescending as he says Sherlock's name.

Sherlock already has that information in his phone and though his hands are unsteady as he texts them along he still manages to get it done.

 _Jesus, he hopes this helps Irene._

He's still staring at his phone when Molly comes out of the shower and asks him what's wrong, and things rapidly go downhill from there.


	12. Profit Motive

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE: PROFIT MOTIVE**

* * *

"What's wrong?"

And Sherlock looks up to see Molly peering worriedly at him, the keys to the penthouse dangling noisily from her fingers.

She's carrying a bag of take away in one hand, a cheap bottle of wine sticking precariously out of her coat pocket. (She had, at her own insistence, bought tonight's meal and her NHS pay-grade is obvious in every one of her choices).

He opens his mouth but doesn't speak; Her eyes go from him to the phone still in his hand and then back again, understanding- followed by something that looks an awful lot like a swiftly-crushed jealousy- flashing in their depths.

"Oh," she says, tone conspicuously neutral. "Scheduling thing?"

Her voice is still a little sharper than Sherlock suspects she was aiming for.

He frowns, discombobulated. He can't- All he can see is Irene, behind his eyes. "Sorry?" he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. "What do you..?"

She doesn't speak, just gestures to the phone with a curt jut of her chin before turning her back to him and piling the takeaway and wine bottle onto the main table in the living room. She shrugs off her coat, draping it across the back of one of the white leather couches as she busies herself fetching plates, cutlery. Wine glasses.

The words are tossed over her shoulder.

They still sound careful.

"Scheduling thing?" she repeats, arranging the dining utensils with a lot more attention that he feels they should warrant. "As in, conflict? Someone need to see you right away, or a client you forgot about..?"

At this she turns and looks at him, hands clasped in front of her.

Sherlock has the oddest feeling that she had to steel herself to do it.

He wants to tell her the truth, wants her to know that he hasn't been seeing clients, that he doesn't want to see clients and his only worry is the possible fate of his friend Irene- A friend whose safety he carelessly neglected-

Since none of that seems able to make its way past his vocal chords however, he merely shakes his head. Rises. He feels… He feels unsteady.

Guilt tightens and snarls in his stomach and he can't seem to make it go away.

"I have to go out," he says. The words are quick. They tumble over one another.

 _He doesn't know what to make of them._

"I need to- I'll just be an hour or so," he says. He's rifling through his pockets, incoherently searching for a door-key that he belatedly realises Molly has set down beside the wine glasses. Shrugging his coat on he picks them up. Reaches out and presses a quick kiss to Molly's forehead. She's frowning, worried and unsure how to voice it, by the looks of things.

It really does feel like they're a couple, he thinks.

"I won't be long," he says distractedly, and before she can answer he's out the door and making his way to the lift.

He doesn't even notice whether he closed the door behind him.

When he reaches the building's foyer he buttons his coat up. Takes a bracing breath and turns his collar up against the chill of the London evening before setting out into the night. The traffic screams. The crowds are everywhere, Friday night excitement thrumming through the air. A riot, as always, waiting to happen-

 _This is his hunting ground,_ he thinks.

 _This used to be his hunting ground- His and Irene's._

It's an hour later- and a couple of miles walking- when he finds himself at The Dorchester.

He doesn't remember deciding to come here, but given the amount of time he and Irene spend in the place he supposes he shouldn't be surprised.

He walks in, orders a drink at the bar. The barman recognises him, gives him a double with a knowing grin. Another arrives to match it, sent over by a sometimes-client he knows and, as he has been taught to do, he grins. Raises his glass in thanks to her, his Client Smile smeared all over his face.

It makes him want to clench his teeth.

The woman joins him. Flirts. She smiles coquettishly. She calls him Will, not darling. Not sweetheart.

 ** _Will._**

 _That's not my name_ , he wants to tell her but he doesn't, and suddenly, for no reason that he can bear to examine all he wants is to hear Molly Hooper sigh out the name, "Sherlock."

 _Like that,_ she whispers in his head. _Just like that, darling Sherlock…_

But Molly Hooper isn't here and the client is. Molly Hooper was left behind, for reasons he can't articulate properly, even to himself. And, he reminds himself savagely, the client will be here long after kind little Molly has vanished. The client will be here long after he himself has lost his ability to amuse, or to charm.

So Sherlock smiles. Chats. Runs through his routines. He orders for them both, wine for the lady, scotch and soda for him. He's smooth. Confident. That's what she's paying for.

She buys him another drink as a reward his brazenness and by this time he's a little drunk. A little willing.

When she takes him upstairs to her room he tells her he has to charge her and it feels so much easier than the sight of Molly Hooper's sweet smile.

The client laughs. Writes him a cheque then and there, the feel of the pen pressing into the flesh between his shoulder-blades as she holds the paper up against his back.

 _She already has an account_ , he thinks dizzily. _He knows she's good for the amount._

He won't let himself ponder whether he might not be.

"Don't you make a lovely writing desk?" She coos and it seems fitting to him, another use he can be put to, another use for a man who so often proves himself useless-

"I am but a tool, there to be used," he says dryly. Knowingly.

His face seems to be smiling without any say-so from his brain.

There's a mirror over the mantelpiece in her suit and he can't help staring at his reflection in it, the image he sees bearing very little resemblance to the man he thinks he is. The man he wants to be. But that man doesn't matter. That man doesn't exist- Inside a bubble universe or any man let another friend get hurt.

So he gets the client on her knees and fucks her. Makes sure to keep it slow and steady. Controlled, as she likes it. Loud and mendacious, as she demands. There's no warmth to it. No passion. No enjoyment. He doesn't find himself out of breath and- thank Christ- he doesn't find himself babbling out secrets. Memories. He doesn't suggest The Boyfriend Experience to her, oh no.

No, it's quick and wet and perfunctory, as easy to him as breathing.

The client comes in a heaving burst of expletives, all of which he has heard before.

 _He's heard all this before._

They lie on the same bed- but not together- for a few moments after they've finished. His sweat is starting to cool, to stick to him in prickly, unpleasant chilliness but he says nothing. He doesn't feel like he can move. He doesn't feel like he ever wants to move again. She coos to him, tells him she enjoyed it; While she's still heaving in breaths he dresses. Pockets the cheque. He doesn't say goodbye but then she won't expect him too.

He's served his purpose, after all.

He walks back to the penthouse like an automaton, the keys jangling in his hands as he wonders what Molly will say when she smells another woman's perfume on him- It's time to discover whether she truly thinks of this as a business relationship and Sherlock finds himself petrified of the notion that she might do-

When he gets inside however he finds the bottle of wine unopened.

The takeaway has been binned.

He looks at his phone- the one he left behind- and sees four missed calls from Molly but no texts and that, he can't help suspecting, is not a good sign.

Nor is the fact that she hasn't bothered to call or text in more than two hours.

This realisation makes him feel oddly disconsolate.

He falls into the guestroom bed- they've been sharing the Master Bedroom- and his skin is itching. Buzzing. Alive with the prickle of an unwelcome presence, one he eventually gets up and tries to shower away.

Molly's eyes are behind his closed eyelids as he scrubs The Dorchester client's presence from his skin. As he tries, finally, to sleep.

He already knows he won't succeed in that. There's so much in his head. Too much. He doesn't know how to get rid of it all.

But sleep he does. Dream he does.

He awakes, drenched in sweat again and panting, his brother's name dying on his lips.

He so rarely remembers his own nightmares about the bombing.

He lays on his back and stares into space and for the first- though, not he suspects, the last- time, he ponders just how lonely he feels, all on his own.

* * *

 _The Next Morning_

He wakes late, roused from slumber by the sound of his mobile.

He forgot to turn it off the night before, and he's so groggy and surprised by that that he spends a few precious minutes staring uncomprehendingly at the device before taking the call.

When he picks up he hears Irene's hitched breathing, recognises it even though he hasn't heard it in so long. "Will?" she asks hesitantly.

He doesn't answer.

"Sherlock?" she asks and it's the most bizarre thing, he doesn't mean to but he lets out a great whoosh of relief at hearing his own name on her lips.

"Irene." His voice sounds tentative. Clipped. He doesn't know what to say to her and he thinks she knows that. And yet…

"Forgive me," he says. He knows he's making it sound more like a demand than a request. "I- I was remiss in my duty of care to you, ma'am."

 _He hasn't called her by her Domme name in a long time either_.

He can hear her sigh over the line but he's not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing.

"Well, it's done," she says tiredly. He doesn't need to ask which It she's referring to. "The client was… persuaded, as I rather thought he might be. Richard can be so wonderfully… creative, where that sort of thing's concerned."

She lets out a small moue of satisfaction and Sherlock can picture her, sitting on a plane somewhere. Smoothing a wrinkle out of some impeccable designer outfit. The thought soothes him somehow. "I'm on my way back now," she's saying, "we're on a stopover somewhere outside Hamburg-"

Sherlock frowns.

"What has happened?" he asks stiffly, a little afraid of the answer.

He can't imagine why she's not coming straight back to London by a nice, direct, safe flight.

By her tone, Irene has guessed where his thoughts have taken him. She sounds ever so slightly exasperated by the fact. "The doctor Richard found for me was insufficient," she says. "Wouldn't have left him in charge of a stray cat, never mind an exquisite creature such as myself. Don't worry, Sherlock: He has a colleague looking at me now- a darling little blond thing called Mary."

He hears a tinge of wickedness creep into her tone.

"She's delightful- And playing hard to get, the minx."

"I told you," he hears a female voice yell off-line, "I only like men! Sexually harass the stewardess!"

Irene lets out a small, throaty laugh at the words and that tiny burst of insouciance, of swagger, sets Sherlock's mind at ease more than he would have thought possible.

If Irene's chatting up small, blond things named Mary then she can't be all that badly hurt, at least that's what he tells himself.

And so he finishes the call. Hangs up the phone.

He's pottering around the flat when he receives an anonymous text message.

He opens the photo message to see a side view of Irene, one of her eyes swelled shut. Her lip cut. Both of her hands- her beautiful, elegant hands- are bandaged and she wears her arm in a sling.

 _She may have forgiven you Mr. Holmes,_ the text message says. _That doesn't mean I do. Neilson._

Sherlock stares at the image, his mind racing, heart twisting, and without thinking about what he's doing he dresses and heads over to the address Meena put down for Molly when she made the appointment.

He doesn't think she'll mind him knowing it.

When she opens the door to him forty minutes later she's wearing ratty pyjamas and a pair of bunny-rabbit slippers but when she sees the state he's in she opens the door- and her arms- without having to be told.


	13. In The Red

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN: IN THE RED**

* * *

 _Molly Hooper's Islington Flat_

 _The Very, Very End of A Very, Very Long Day_

She can tell there's something wrong the moment she lays eyes on him.

It's not her training as a pathologist, a finder of clues. It's not her knowledge of human nature, which is, she often thinks, somewhat lacking. It's not the time he's turned up at her door- or the fact he's turned up at all- that tells her that something is well and truly up with him.

No, it's the way he's staring at her, shaking. His hands are clenched at his side and his eyes are wide. Electric. He looks wild and lost and really rather afraid; He can't seem to stand still and he snaps and spits with energy, a live wire there in her front hall.

When she looks into his face, she sees the worry. The shadows of old hurts and old wounds.

He doesn't say a word before she opens the door and her arms to him.

He crashes into her without any hesitation whatsoever, sweeping her up and dragging her inside with him.

Without saying a word he presses his mouth to hers, kicking the door shut even as shrugs off his coat. His suit jacket.

"Will," she manages to pant between kisses. "Will, what's happened? Why did you-"

"No." He shakes his head, squeezing her more tightly as they both land messily against her sink. Before she can say anything else he kisses her again, picking her up and depositing her atop the kitchen counter. Pushing his way in between her thighs even as he starts tugging at his tie. Kicking off his shoes.

He can't seem to stop touching her, though for the first time in their acquaintance Molly thinks it might be a good idea he try.

She doesn't speak, however, and neither does he. She's not really sure what to say, too distracted and breathless to form a coherent sentence, let alone demand an explanation for what he's doing here. And he doesn't give her the chance to; He just keeps on kissing her. Keeps on undressing himself. He's found the buttons of her pyjama top and he's opening them, clumsy in his haste, nuzzling his face into the valley between her breasts and kissing. Sucking.

His hands are sliding up her calves, kneading and stroking in that way he knows she likes.

Everything is going just the way he knows she likes.

Molly can feel herself beginning to give in, the desire for pleasure warring with the desire to know what's happened to him. But then-

"I had to see you."

The words come from out of nowhere, murmured reverently up at her from his position between her breasts.

He's taken the hem of her pyjama bottoms in his hands and he's pulling at them roughly, obviously trying to take them off; He must expect Molly to cooperate but for once she is unwilling. Because-

"Why did you _have_ to see me?" she asks, confused by the sentiment.

 _Surely he's taking this whole imaginary boyfriend thing too far with that, especially given the way he ran out on her yesterday?_

The words come out more harshly than she intended, and it's only when she says them that she realises how happy she is that she did, how much she wanted to speak, wanted to ask for an explanation for his behaviour.

She's never been great at asserting herself with men but things were getting ridiculous there.

 _And besides, having sex with someone so clearly upset would probably not be the most ethical course to embark on._

He blinks up at her, though, guardedness clouding his expression and as it does she tenses up. Shakes her head.

She raises her knee and gently nudges it against his hip, indicating that she's like him to move away from her.

This he does, though he doesn't look happy about it.

"What's going on, Will?" she asks, and he winces. It makes her heart tighten, to see someone she likes this much in such obvious distress when she has no idea what could be causing it. A horrid, heart-stopping thought slithers through her head. "Did a… Did the client you ran off to see do something?" she asks faintly, her gaze dropping to his shirt buttons.

She reaches out and, more to give her hands a task than anything else, sets about retying and righting his tie.

He takes in a short, sharp breath. Stills her hands, his palms caging hers.

"Why would you ask me that?" he asks and his tone is cautious. Curt.

Suddenly he seems… wary.

She shrugs, eyes still on his chest. She feels awkward and she hates feeling awkward. She never has around him before. "I don't know," she mutters. "You run off suddenly last night… You don't answer your phone…And now, now you can't even say hello to me. You just want to shag first and not ask questions later..."

His voice turns hard. "So you assume the poor little escort got himself into bother, do you?"

Molly's head snaps up to look at him. "What? No! I just thought…"

"You just thought I'd gotten myself mixed up in something lurid and criminal, is that it?" His voice is sharp. Mocking. She's never heard him speak like that before but then why would she have?

She knows him well enough to know he'd never use a tone like that on a client unless they specifically asked him to.

"I hate to break it to you, Miss Hooper," he's snapping, "but this is a career. It's a job. It's not an episode of Law and Order, it's merely an expeditious way to pay my bills- You are merely an expeditious way to pay my bills-"

He looks sharply at her as he says the words, as if anticipating her hurt reaction to them. There's bravado in that look. Pride. He's being knowingly and willingly hurtful and it's this- this evidence of premeditation- that makes Molly bite her tongue.

She does not retaliate. She does not say or do anything.

Instead she stares at him calmly, levelly, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with that.

Well, Molly thinks, at least she would appear to have made the right call.

Because she's seen this sort of behaviour before, from Tom of all people, and she knows what it meant from him. She knows why he used to do it. It meant he was hurt. Confused.

And too bloody pig-headed and masculine to know how to explain that to her.

The memory of her ex makes asking the next question easier- Because she trusts Will so much more than she ever trusted Tom.

"Why are you being an arsehole?" she asks and at her bluntness he takes in a sharp breath. Blinks.

 _Apparently the Complete & Utter Bastard Routine was supposed to forestall her asking that._

"I…" He shakes his head as if trying to clear it. His eyes flicker from one side of the room to the other with an off sort of surreptitiousness, as if he thinks she won't notice that he's casting about for something to say.

When he looks up at her though she can tell that he knows he's been caught out.

He lets out a sigh, rakes a hand through his hair. "Drama is easier, you know," he says and in spite of the quip his voice is surprisingly… uncertain. Youthful. He doesn't sound at all convinced by his own words and despite herself, despite the fact that Molly knows he's being a git she reaches out and takes her hand in his. Squeezes it.

His pulse is harsh and pounding, underneath her thumb.

"What's going on, Will?" she asks quietly and this time when he looks up at her he's her Will again, the man she's been with for the last week. The man she's enjoyed spending so much time with.

She's really rather happy to have him back, she was a bit worried when he stopped picking up his phone.

"I had a bad day," he mumbles.

The words are almost soundless, she has to lean in to hear them.

For a moment she suspects that it might merely be a way to get her near enough that the whole Dance of Seduction and No Communication can start again but that doesn't seem to be what he's after. He doesn't look down her top nor he doesn't kiss her.

No, this time when he moves in closer to her, it doesn't really feel sexual.

It feels… It feels oddly intimate and Molly is wise enough to know that that's probably more dangerous.

But she doesn't pull away. She doesn't want to. Instead she looks at him. Takes his face in her hands and tips it up to hers. When their eyes meet he smiles and it is very beautiful, that smile. There's something in it that's all his and it pulls a matching grin from her.

It doesn't happen all that often, but suddenly she feels beautiful too. Wanted. He seems to have a knack for doing that to her.

With a deep breath he reaches down, lays his forehead against hers and this time they inhale together.

"I have a friend," he says eventually. "She sees foreign clients. Travels, lives with them.

"It's…It's one of the reasons she's so in demand."

Molly brings her hands up to rest on his shoulders. Strokes small, soothing circles against his flesh. She keeps her voice soft. "And something happened to this friend? Or with her?"

He knows what she's really asking in that but he shakes his head ruefully. This time the smile is more sombre.

"Not with her," he says. "That's been over for ages, and even when it was going on it was more about showing me the ropes than anything else." He presses a single chaste little kiss to Molly's lips to forestall her obvious next question. "But she had a- That is to say, things went wrong with a client during her last assignment-"

Molly's breath catches. "Is she alright?"

Will nods. Now he looks a little shamefaced. "She is," he says. "Or rather, she will be. She's on her way home now, the doctor says she'll be fine."

Molly winces at the implication in that statement.

If he sees it though, he gives no indication. "We have a system, you see," he continues. "She sends me a message if she's in trouble and I arrange an exit. If I'm seeing a client with any potential for… fireworks, then she does the same for me."

Molly looks at him. She doesn't like the fact that he puts himself in danger with clients so often that they have to have an actual procedure for it. "And that's what happened this time?"

He shakes his head. The expression on his face is almost stricken. "She sent me the message that she needed to get out. In point of fact, she sent me four."

He looks her directly in the eye.

"They were texts, sent to my phone. I got the last one last night, when you were out getting dinner…"

Understanding dawns for Molly. "But you didn't look at your phone, did you, during our time together?" Again he shakes his head. "Why?"

"Why do you think?"

He goes to move away from her, spine tensing but Molly holds him close. Refuses to remove her arms from his shoulders.

After a moment he acquiesces and she might be mistaken, but she suspects he's grateful she insisted.

This time he wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her in closer to him; She lays her head on his chest and he tucks it beneath his chin, hands stroking gently up and down her back.

"I didn't want to be away from you," he says eventually, when she doesn't answer. Molly suspects the question was mainly rhetorical anyway. "I- I like the thing between us. I like how it feels. And with the anniversary, and how I feel about you, and how messy and all over the place it is, I suppose I just… I just wanted to live inside our little bubble universe for a while longer."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. The next words are mumbled.

She can hear the guilt- the pain- in them.

"That just happened to have a very negative impact on Irene, something which is my fault."

She pulls back to look at him. "And that's what upset you?" she asks. "That's why you-"

She makes a whooshing motion with her hand and he cocks an eyebrow at her.

"I'm not Batman," he deadpans. "I can't just abseil away."

"You made a good bloody hash of it." And she crosses her arms. Mock-glares at him, thankful that he can joke with her.

If he can joke then he must be feeling better.

The silence stretches out.

"So that's why you ran out so quickly?" she asks eventually and he gives her a small, almost solemn nod. She frowns. "But I don't understand," she says. "Today would have been our last day together anyway-"

"I wasn't thinking about that. I wasn't letting myself think about that."

And this time when he kisses her, it's on her lips. He stares down at her with that burning, intense gaze of his and she feels her stomach drop, arousal tumbling languidly through her veins as sweet and inevitable as honey. Unable to help herself, she returns the kiss, more certain of his comfort now, more certain of his certainty.

That's the only thing she's interested in right now.

Because an idea is forming in her mind, one which seems perfect for their last night together. One which seems oddly fitting, considering how much he's given her. Considering his obvious guilt and discomfort over what happened with his friend.

As she thinks this she smiles. Hops off the counter. He looks down at her, expression quizzical and she holds out her hands.

When he takes them she starts tugging him towards her bedroom. He wraps one arm around her waist, pulling her back against him and she can feel the press of his arousal poking against her arse, just as it had their first time together in The Dorchester.

The memory makes her smile.

She twines the fingers of the hand at her waist through her own and when she looks at him over her shoulder his expression gentles.

His eyes are… easier now, less worried.

When they enter her bedroom and she lets his hands go he doesn't seem so… bereft at her moving away. Instead he watches her, eyes on hers as she moves to stand right before him. Stands on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his cheek. His jaw. His earlobe.

She tries to press one to his eyelids but she can't reach and despite herself she giggles.

"Would this help?" he asks with mock-gravitas and he takes a seat on her bed, hands going to his tie.

Sitting up, she's just a little taller than he is.

She shakes her head though, halts the fingers working his tie loose. He cocks his head, expression curious and slowly she bends down. Kisses him again.

"Let me do that," she murmurs. "Please, Will?"

He nods, willing but still clearly confused. "What else do you want to do to me?" he asks, trying to take back control of the situation, trying to give her what she wants, what she's always previously wanted. But she merely kisses him again. Silences his questions as he has silenced so many of hers over the last few days.

She doesn't want him to let his mouth or his brain get in the way of this.

Instead she opens the tie, pulls it off. Sets to opening his shirt, pressing a kiss to his throat and Adam's apple with each button opened. She licks the hollow notch at the base of his clavicle and he shivers. Lets out the most delicious little moan.

His hands tighten into fists, there against his thighs and she feels so wicked, that she did that to him.

"Molly..?" he asks and there's no worry in his voice. No distrust. There's only an odd, almost-innocence that's attractive as Hell. She'd be inclined to think he was playing a part for her but he isn't: He's never really been dishonest with her.

It's not how he operates and she really likes that.

"Be still," she says firmly and he blinks. As always happens when she gives him an order, his pupil dilate. He grows quiet. Attentive. "I want to do something special for you," she says quietly, "since this is our last night together…"

Again, confusion. "But that's not how this works," he tries to object. "The purpose of your being with me is to work out what you like-"

"And clearly what I like is being in charge." She speaks over him. Kisses him again, this one long and lingering.

It's nearly painful when they break apart to suck in breath.

"Clearly what I like is being listened to," she continues. "Clearly what I like is being asked what I want and given it- And what I want is to do this for you."

"So this is for me?" The words are breathless. Aroused. His hands come up to rest on her hips and slowly, slowly, he starts pulling her to him.

She comes to a rest, straddling his lap.

"Yes," she says. "This is for you." The words are whispered in his ear. "I want you to tell me what you enjoy. I want you to ask me to give you what you need, because… Because I think you deserve that.

"I think you need that right now."

He looks at her, his eyes wide, breathing heavy. It should be funny, because for the first time in their acquaintance she thinks she might have shocked him. But then-

"Undress me," he says quietly. His voice is getting lower. Rougher.

It sends a shiver of pleasure right down Molly's spine.

She nods- "like this?"- and before he can answer she's pulling off his shirt. Opening his belt. She kisses him with each garment's removal, hands stroking and gliding all over his skin until he captures her hands. Takes them in his and turns them palm down against his flesh. "Like this," he instructs. "More firm, less…"

Teasing?"

He nods. Grins. "Yes, less teasing."

She does as he demonstrates, moving her hands across his body. The flat muscles planes of his belly. The subtle curve of his hip. His backside.

When her fingers skate across his upper thigh he hisses. Halts her.

"Not there," he says. "That tickles."

"How about this?"

And she replaces her fingertips with her mouth. Her tongue. His flesh jolts at the sensation, breath pouring out of him in a stream of curses and she smiles. Continues her slow examination. She never realised it could be so much fun, discovering a man in this way. She presses against his shoulder and he lays back in the bed. She licks her way across his stomach, her hands coming to rest in the thick, wiry bush of hair at the base of his- now completely hard- cock and he goes still. Stares at her. They both swallow at the same time.

They've never done this before.

"I assumed you didn't like it," he says softly. "You don't have to-"

"I know that." And with him, Molly does. She knows there's no pressure. No expectation. No pouting disappointment that she seems so uncomfortable with something that's expected of her, whether she likes it or not. Truth be told, she doesn't like blow jobs: She doesn't get anything out of it at all. She doesn't enjoy the feeling of a cock in her mouth, against her throat. She doesn't find anything in any way arousing about trying to shield her teeth and breathe at the same time.

But she sees the effect it has on him. The pleasure. The anticipation. She wonders whether it's a thing he gets to experience all that often, given his profession, and whether he enjoys it when he does.

So slowly, slowly, her eyes locked on his, she runs her cheek gently against the thick smooth shaft.

 _If she's going to do this, she's going to do this **her** way._

He gasps at the sensation. Raises his head to look at her. Emboldened- encouraged- she starts lapping gently against his length, tongue darting out to lick the veins of his shaft, its delicate underside. After a few moments she ventures to the cock-head, taking it into her mouth and licking. Suckling lightly. His hands raise automatically to go to her hair but at the last moment they drop to his sides instead.

They fist together, scrunching up the bedclothes.

She's grateful- she wasn't looking forward to him controlling her head- and when she smiles at him in relief smiles back. Lets out a satisfied exhalation of breath, his head dropping back against her pillow even as he begins hitching his hips, pressing himself further inside her mouth. Asking her wordlessly to take more of him.

She is, for once, happy to oblige.

With each thrust she relaxes more, opens her mouth a little wider. Soon he's gasping for breath, completely losing control of himself; When she peers up at him now, he's shaking his head from side to side, mumbling and chanting her name. She redoubles her efforts, wanting to make him come from this, wanting to see the look on his face when he finally climaxes-

Before she can though, his hands come to her hair; he tugs her head up, gestures for her come up to him.

She clambers up the bed and he pulls her close. Looks her in the eye.

"You want me to tell you what I want?" he says hoarsely.

She nods.

"Do you want me to show you too?"

She nods again.

And then, to her surprise, Will pushes her gently in front of him and onto her side. Muddles himself in against her, spooning her, his chest at her back. One hand traces and caresses her thigh, sliding down until his fingers are nestled in her wetness. She can feel his cock, hard and straining against her backside, even as he hooks his other hand around her knee and pulls it slightly up.

For a moment she doesn't understand what he wants but then she feels it, him sliding inside her, his hand curling sweetly against her clit. She lets out a hiss of pleasure and she hears him laugh, a low, satisfied thing. Her skin tingles with the loveliness of it.

"Like this?" She asks, pushing back against him until she can feel the hair at his cock's root press against the cheeks of her arse.

He nods. "Just like that," he says before pulling her closer. Draping the thigh he'd been holding up back onto the bed. The change in position this causes makes his penetration more shallow, his hips moving in gentle time. He's languid. In no hurry. His hands work her mound and her nipples as he licks and kisses and bites her throat. Her shoulders.

He keeps whispering her name.

Eventually neither of them can take any more teasing though. Neither of them can take anymore of this tantalizing pleasure. So Will shifts them both, urging Molly to lie on her front, his body draped over hers. He plants his forearm beside her head, letting it take his weight, and then changes the angle with which he's pressing into her. Her arse tipped slightly upwards, he can make the penetration deeper. The pace quickens, this new position delivering a far more strident pleasure. It only takes a few thrusts for Molly's climax to arrive though Will continues to push inside her until it comes, his face buried against her throat. She gasps, breathless from her own orgasm and his and Will kisses her.

It's long and hard and absolutely joyful.

They fall asleep together, a tangle of limbs and happiness and it's only as she's losing consciousness that Molly realises Tom never even occurred to her, though she and Will slept in The Scene of The Crime, as Meena insists on calling it.

When she and Will encounter Tom the next morning however, she realises her joy may have been premature.


	14. Not Safe For Work

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN: NOT SAFE FOR WORK**

* * *

 _Molly Hooper's Islington Flat,_

 _The Next Morning,_

Much to his (later) surprise, Sherlock doesn't have any nightmares that night.

In fact he sleeps well and soundly and deep, all night long.

And when he wakes up, sun streaming in through unfamiliar windows and his feet sticking out over the ends of an unfamiliar duvet, he doesn't mind.

 _No, there's nothing he can imagine that would make him mind this situation._

For when he finally, languidly, opens his eyes, he sees Molly Hooper's warm, sticky, thoroughly lovely body draped over him. Her head buried in the crook of his neck, her little hand curling warmly around his cock again while the other snakes up to press against his heart. (He can feel the nail of her thumb digging gently against his chest).

One of his palms has travelled up to cup her shoulder-blade in his sleep, the bones delicate and warm beneath his touch; His other hand is buried between the softness of her thighs, the hair of her mound sliding tantalizingly against his fingertips and making him smile.

Her breath whispers against him, the rhythm of it as soothing as any waltz.

She sighs, nuzzling closer into him and muttering something which distinctly sounds like, "bugger off, Meena, I'm not going into Uni today-" and at the words he lets out a small laugh. Pulls her closer and presses a kiss to her forehead whilst she wriggles sleepily by his side. The feel of her, the all-over lushness of her flesh against his, it's a pleasure quite distinct from the release of orgasm, or the achievement of fulfilling a client's role and bringing them off. It's not the quiet, tea-and-debauchery delights of he and Irene when she was training him, or even their occasional forays into one another's beds when business or loneliness called.

No, this is something else.

This is something different.

It's calmness. Fondness. The knowledge of acceptance and with it the freedom to experiment. To try. To want.

 _It's been so long since he let himself_ _ **want**_ _anything._

As he thinks this he pictures her last night, staring up at him as she sucked on his cock. Eyes wide, mouth full of him, the knowledge of what she was doing to him obvious in her every movement. Her every breath. All of this was for him, her expression seemed to say, because this was what he had told her he wanted.

And yet, it hadn't felt like he'd thought it would, like it normally did with a client.

He hadn't felt on display.

Hadn't felt as if he were performing.

There were moments towards the end, in fact, when he'd lost himself to the feel of her completely, so far gone inside the experience that he'd forgotten his role and all the distance it demanded.

 _For the first time in years, he muses, he hadn't been thinking about anything at all when he came._

At this he frowns, wondering whether he should be worried by that loss of self-possession. He has spent the last seven years, after all, insisting that he control himself. Be able to make an account of himself and his actions, if asked. And yet, he finds he can't be worried, not when he's with Molly. It really does feel different, this thing he's found with her. Moving gingerly so as not to wake her, he peers down at the woman in his arms and as he does so he can't help it: His face spontaneously splits into a grin. The feel of it is welcome. Familiar and strange at the same time.

It's been so long since Sherlock permitted himself such unrestrained pleasure.

It's been so long since his reactions were just his; More than her company or her acceptance or her time, that's a thing Molly has given him.

This last week, he belatedly realises- _It has indeed felt like a gift._

As if she can feel his smile her own eyelashes flutter open, eyes sleepy and unfocused even as she grins up at him. Raises her head to kiss him, aiming, he thinks, for his lips but somehow landing on the tip of his nose instead.

She snorts- "Oops,"- and he laughs again. Pulls her to him.

Since she can't seem to manage this, he supposes he'll have to help her out.

So he leans down and presses his lips to hers, his fingers stroking and scraping her hair. The delicate bones of her skull.

She sighs in satisfaction as he does it.

When they pull apart she beams, properly _beams_ at him, her breathing more erratic but her eyes clearer. More focussed.

"Good morning, Mr. Scott," she says playfully.

He stares down at her hands, stroking his fingers along her palm, her wrist. His thumb skates up towards the crook of her arm, tracing blue veins and freckles as he goes.

Her skin is so soft.

"Sherlock," he says quietly and she blinks in surprise. Looks up at him.

"Sorry, what?"

"Sherlock," he repeats, pressing a careful kiss to her collar-bone. "My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes." He punctuates each name with another kiss to her throat. Her shoulder.

He can't make himself meet her gaze.

"That's my real name," he says. "The other one is, well, it's my working name-"

"Oh." She stiffens for a moment, uncomfortable apparently. Sherlock knows he should look up at her but he still finds he can't. He'd toyed with the notion of telling her his given name last night, but he hadn't made his decision about it one way or the other.

And now he'd blurted it out and he's probably frightened her. Or at least made her uncomfortable, reminding her that no matter what he might want to believe theirs is not some bubble universe.

No, theirs is a business arrangement which is actually supposed to be over right now…

Discomfort- panic- begins to make its way through him. He shouldn't have- She's a client. He doesn't tell his name to clients. _It's one of the few things he still insists on keeping for himself._ He shakes his head, tries to disentangle himself from her. She holds on for a moment, only acquiescing when it becomes obvious he really wants to go. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, plants his feet on the ground and his head in his hands, but then-

"I'm assuming, name like that, you know how to throw a decent punch," she says quietly.

"I'm also assuming you learned to sprint like Sebastian Coe, back in the day."

He looks back at her over his shoulder and she gives him a wan little smile, contrition written all over her face.

The teasing must be her way of trying to soothe him.

"You don't know the half of it," he says and he has the pleasure of hearing Molly laugh. She looks at him askance- _is he ok?_ \- and he nods. Slowly, cautiously, she kneels and crawls towards him on the bed. He doesn't move, opens his arms to her in fact, and when she gets close enough he hauls her into his lap. Wraps her more tightly in his embrace.

She's so bloody little, there are times he swears he could pick her up and put her in his pocket.

"So," she says quietly. "Sherlock."

He nods. "Yes," he says. "Sherlock. It's a family name." He presses a kiss to her cheek. "Of course, that does merely prove that I come from a family of sadists."

She snorts in amusement and he looks ever so slightly away from her. "Is it alright that I told you?"

This time it's her turn to nod, curling her arms around his neck and manoeuvring herself so that they're face to face. She has morning breath and a pillow-crease on her cheek and her hair is in disarray: In other words, he thinks, she looks lovely.

"I'm glad you told me," she murmurs, kissing his lips. "And I'm glad you came over." She places another kiss to his throat. "And I'm glad that I actually have condoms, even if we forgot about them again last night-"

He winces. "Sorry," he says. "Bareback- It's a bad habit to get into. Irene will kill me if she finds out I've been so cavalier with my health."

Molly's smile widens. Turns positively sinful. "Then how about you go into the bathroom-" she jerks her chin in the direction of the bedroom door- "and fetch me the condom box, hmm?"

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Why would I do that?"

She cocks an eyebrow back. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says. "Don't you want to have wild monkey rumpy-pumpy on my bed this morning, hmm?"

Despite himself he smiles. "Well, I _suppose_ that might be alright…" he says doubtfully. " _If_ I get the condoms…"

And without warning he stands, scooping her up and pulling her against him as he goes. He's already planning for a morning shower and she's going to come along. She scrambles for a moment, legs eventually finding purchase as they wrap around his waist and, taking all of her weight he carries her out the door. Into the flat beyond, since he has to pass through her kitchen to get to her bathroom. He's kissing her as he does it.

He blames this for his not noticing the man in Molly's kitchen until he starts shouting.

He also blames this for why he lets things get as far as they do.

* * *

"You whoring little bitch."

And Molly blinks. Pulls away from Will- _No_ , she reminds herself, _he said his name is Sherlock._

She looks around, gaze going over his shoulders to spot the source of the insult and as she does so her stomach drops.

For there, perched awkwardly on her sofa and wearing a thunderously unimpressed facial expression, sits Tom. He has a suitcase with him and his coat is hanging on the door-hook he always uses. His hair shows that it's raining outside and- yes, she sees it, a damp umbrella lies at his feet.

As soon as they make eye-contact he gets to his feet, his jaw jutted aggressively outwards, his hands folding into fists at his sides-

Quicker than Molly would have thought possible, Sherlock sets her on her feet. Forces her behind him.

He's naked as the day he was born but he seems utterly unfazed by this- Which is more than can be said for Tom.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock bites out, and his voice has become impeccably, infuriatingly posh, "but would you care to repeat that?"

And he smiles a smile at Tom that Molly has never seen before, one which positively drips venom and disdain. It looks… It looks almost dangerous.

For a moment Tom stops, blinks, surprised perhaps to discover such self-possession in the man his former fiancé is clearly sleeping with-

And then he seems to pull himself together. Regain his handy sense of moral self-righteousness. For he glowers at Sherlock, crossing his arms belligerently over his chest before turning his attention to Molly.

She feels herself freeze under his glare.

His lip curls in disgust and instinctively Molly brings her hands up to cover herself, embarrassment rising within her. It makes no sense, she knows, but that's still her automatic response to this man's judgement: shame.

It makes her turn cold. Uncomfortable.

Sherlock must notice- "No wonder you weren't happy with him," he says, making no attempt to lower his voice.

But as usual, Tom's not listening. Probably just as well, Molly muses, considering how incendiary the current situation is. "So this is what was actually going on," he's biting out. "This was why you were so eager to be shot of me."

He shakes his head, laughs. It's an ugly, angry thing.

"All that guff about me and how I was the one in the wrong and all this time you were-"

"I wasn't." Molly can't understand where her voice has gone, why the words come out as softly as they do. She sees Sherlock turning to look at her and the feeling of embarrassment, of shame deepens that he would see her meek reaction, that he would realise what she was like when she was with Tom.

 _Why does her ex always seem to do this to her?_

But rather than realisation or disgust, the look on Sherlock's face is one of anger. Not an anger directed at her, she realises, but an anger directed at Tom.

He reaches out. Takes her wrist in his hand, his thumb caressing it soothingly. His voice is soft. "You have done nothing to be ashamed of, Molly," he says. "This arsehole broke into your flat-"

"Hey!" Tom snaps. "It's my flat too- Or at least it was, until-"

Sherlock's voice is sharp. "Until you fucked someone else in Molly's bed," he snaps. "Something which she was unfortunate enough to walk in on- isn't that so?"

And he lowers his voice, takes a peremptory, adversarial step towards the other man.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Tom takes a cautionary, peremptory step back.

"Or are you going to compound your cretinous status by calling her a liar, too?" Sherlock continues. His smile is as sharp as a knife. "Because I'm willing to bet- having heard something of how you treated her- that the only one lying in this relationship was you, you wanker-"

Tom grimaces. "Is that what the frigid little bitch told you?" he snarls.

Sherlock laughs. "If you think she's frigid, you just didn't know what you were doing with her, mate."

And he gives the other man a very precise, very well composed, very purposeful leer, something which makes the full import of what he's saying impossible to ignore.

He might as well have pissed all over Tom's shoes, so obvious is the message he wishes to impart; Molly's not sure whether to be disgusted at being used to score points, or relieved that somebody is actually talking back to the git, since her voice has apparently failed her.

Of course at these words, Tom starts to sputter, his face turning red and as he does he makes a quick grab at Molly, aiming for her elbow, she thinks. He makes contact, tries to yank her away from Sherlock; She's actually dragged a couple of inches across the lino before she comes back to herself. Realises what he's doing to her.

 _I'm not bloody well having this_ , is what she thinks.

The reaction is immediate: Her senses clear and she instinctively braces both her hands on Tom's chest, arresting her movement forward. He snaps something at her she doesn't catch and without hesitation she pushes him sharply away, hissing out a sharp "fuck off," for good measure.

It works; Tom stumbles back. Too hyped up on aggression to really realise what he's doing however, he gets back up. Comes at her again.

There's something in his face, something unthinking. Stupid.

Not for the first time it occurs to Molly that the man she was going to marry is clearly an idiot.

This time she's ready for the idiot though, she picks up the nearest thing which comes to hand- an ugly, heavy lamp his mother bought them- and hefts it towards him. The import of her threat is clear: _Jog on, wanker._ (She may even have said as much out loud).

It makes no difference though; Tom jerks towards her, running on adrenaline now perhaps, and as he does Sherlock gets between them. Grabs his shoulders with an ease that Molly might not have expected of him and physically hauls him towards the door.

Sherlock's shouting and snarling and he looks angry, so, so angry.

For the first time that morning, Molly starts to feel a little afraid.

Before he can get Tom out the door though the other man breaks free. Darts toward Sherlock, hissing something (probably uncomplimentary), his fist raised and ready to strike.

He swings wide, missing his target, his momentum carrying him downward and away, knocking him over-

He loses his balance, staggers messily as he tries to regain it but before he can Sherlock ploughs into him and starts hitting him. Beating him. They're body blows, raining down on his chest. His back. His stomach. They land with what looks like merciless force, knocking the wind out of Tom and all the while Sherlock's yelling. Kicking at him. He's snapping things about Molly and Irene and someone called Mikey and she's not really sure he's ever going to stop.

Now worried, Molly dodges through the rain of blows. Reaches out for him, gingerly catching hold of the arm he's swung back to thump Tom.

There's so much strength in it that she finds him hard to halt.

At feeling her resistance he looks back at her and he's wild-eyed. Upset. For a moment it's like he doesn't recognise her and then clarity comes to him again.

His expression turns confused. Stricken.

At Molly's urging he stands up, lets Tom alone. The other man staggers to his feet, the fight gone out of him. His lip is bloodied, he'll have a black eye soon. Sherlock's reaction was more, perhaps, than he had bargained for, Molly can't help but think.

 _It was quite a bit more than_ _ **any**_ _of them had bargained for, she can't help but think._

With a bewildered, belligerent look at Molly- "I was going to ask you to try again but you're just not worth it"- Tom picks up his coat and huffily jerks it on.

He stares at Molly, disgust still obvious on his face, but when he makes to move towards her and Sherlock reacts, he hastily backs away.

"You're welcome to her, mate," he says, some bravado returning to his voice. "You'll be hearing from the police about this, just so you know."

Sherlock glares at him, breathing hard. Unbowed. He doesn't even look scared at the notion of being charged with assault. "Go to the police," he says evenly, "and I'll tell them you broke in here. I'll let them imagine why you might do so, now you've found out your ex has moved on with someone else." Tom scoffs. "Besides," Sherlock continues, voice turning needling, "I'm related to half of the CPS and a third of the country's judges: Let's see how far you get with an assault charge."

And he very purposefully, very obviously turns from the man, gets out of thumping distance.

Molly doubts what he just said is true- _and even if it were, would it be enough to get an assault charge swept under the carpet?_ \- but Tom must find something in there he believes because he breaks eye contact. Backs off.

He opens the door, his attention never leaving the man beside him.

Molly doesn't blame him.

"I'll be having your key," Sherlock says and his voice is odd. Cold. "This won't be happening again, are we clear, Thomas?"

With a huff of indignation Tom fishes the front door key out of his pocket; For a moment Molly thinks he's going to throw it at her but at the last moment- and with a look at Sherlock- he drops it to the floor and turns sharply on his heel. Backs away.

He pulls the door closed as he does so.

For a moment silence reigns, Molly not really able to look at Sherlock and Sherlock not really able to look at Molly. For a morning that started so beautifully, it all went rather downhill, but then-

"First aid kit's in the loo too," she says quietly. "Let's get that hand looked at."

Without saying a word Sherlock nods to her and they both pad back towards the bathroom.

* * *

They're silent for a while after that, as Molly patches him up.

Sherlock does as she says without argument or incident, the adrenaline of the fight slowly winding down until there's nothing but hollowness in its wake. Emptiness.

He knows that he should feel good- He vanquished a foe! He defended his woman!- But he doesn't feel good. Oh no, he feels awful. He feels scared and horrified by how out of control he was.

Molly seems to understand as much without being told and for that he is quite grateful.

Eventually though, when he's been patched up and they both ascertain that nothing's missing from the flat, Molly makes some tea and toast. Sits him down. Asks what happened.

He's tempted not to tell her anything but he finds he doesn't want to, just as he hadn't wanted to lie to her last night.

So he sits on her couch and explains, how he'd seen Tom reaching for her and had seen Irene. Victor. His brother. All the people he's failed. All the people he hadn't protected.

"So you defended me in a way you never got to defend them?" she asks quietly and though he might not have thought that was what he was doing, he can see her point.

There's more to it though.

 _There's always more to it, with him._

"I've- I've never been good with feelings," he says. It is a toe-curlingly difficult admission for him but then, he doubts it will come as a surprise. "I don't- I don't know how to deal with them, and I seem to feel an awful lot of them when I'm with you."

Molly looks at him askance- "Is that a bad thing?"- and he shakes his head. Kisses her.

 _It still feels so good to kiss her._

"I don't think what I feel for you is a bad thing," he says quietly. "I just…" he sighs. Rakes a hand through his hair. _He doesn't seem to like lying to Molly_ , he reminds himself. "I just think that maybe," he admits, "maybe all these feelings aren't good when I don't know how to handle them."

There's an ocean of understanding in her sharp intake of breath.

When he looks at her from the corner of his eye she's gone awfully still.

Silence stretches out then. Unwanted. Uncomfortable. He wants her to argue. He wants her to disagree. Some part of him wants her to tell him that it's alright. That he's her hero. That his losing his temper with Tom wasn't as scary to her as he knows it was. That it shouldn't be as scary to him as he's finding it.

But that's not who she is, and she doesn't lie to him. He doesn't think she ever has.

And it's because she's never lied to him that she says what she says next.

"This is so good between us," she says gently. Her voice is longing. Sorrowful. Her fingers draw little patterns on his skin and it feels wonderful. "I've never… I've never felt so good with anyone before, not ever.

"You know that, don't you?" she says and there's not a trace of a lie in her voice.

Sherlock sighs again. "There's a but coming," he says and she shakes her head. Leans into him. He can feel another smile of hers, against the crook of his neck this time. It's a thin, wan thing and he imagines there's too much knowing in it.

"No buts," she says. "There is an _however_ , however."

He snorts. "Of course there is."

Without any warning she leans forward, presses a peck of a kiss to his bloodied hand. Before she can pull away he grabs the back of her neck. Pulls her in for another short, hard kiss. When they come up for air they're both breathless.

They sit and stare at each other and they _know_ what they have to do.

"You could have beaten that moron up," she says eventually. Her voice is tiny. " _I_ could have bloody married him. I was so desperate for, for stability. The ending I thought I should need. The life I thought I should want. And because of that, I nearly married that dickhead. Because of that, I'm climbing ever further inside this bubble-universe I have with you, which isn't good."

She huffs out a breath. "I really wish it were, but it's not."

This time it's his turn to take a sharp breath.

"So I don't think either of us is in a good place to be dealing with each other's big, scary emotions right now, do you, Sherlock?" she says.

The use of his real name twists his heart. Tightens it. He likes the sound of it on her lips, but-

"No," he must concede. _He doesn't lie to Molly_. "No, I don't.

"I think we both of us have some things we need to sort out."

Another small smile splits her face at that. It's soft and beautiful. Sad. She takes his face in his hands, tilts his head up to hers.

"Everything about this is perfect," she says, "except for the timing."

He finds he has to agree.

"Everything about _you_ is perfect," he corrects, "except for the timing."

"Given your profession," she says quietly, "it was your timing that's always had to be impeccable." She kisses his cheek.

"Maybe it's time you let yourself take a break from that."

And with that she smiles sadly. Stands up and holds her hands out to him. They make their way to her bedroom and they make love for the last time. Slowly. Gently.

He's made good on his promise, Molly tells him: She does know what she likes now. _She knows how to tell people, and she's not ashamed._

The news makes him glad- he tells her as much- but when they're finished he dresses. Leaves. She doesn't try to stop him but she presses a small piece of paper into his hand as he opens her door. "Keep in touch," she says softly. "Not for, you know, naughtiness, just… Just in case you need someone. Someone, to, you know, help with things." She shrugs. "You can have me.

"You can always have me: remember that, Wi- Sherlock."

"I'll remember it, Molly."

He takes the piece of paper and presses a kiss to her forehead. Takes his leave. He tells himself he'll throw it away, try to forget her. He tells himself he won't miss their bubble universe, even as he steps over its threshold and walks away.

But six months later, when he rings his parents for the first time, it's still in his pocket.

Seven months later, when he signs over his share of the business to Irene's new find, Henry, it's still in his wallet, muddled in with his ID and his Oyster card, an anomaly in the detritus of his life.

And ten months later, when he, Irene and his parents finally visit Mikey and Victor's graves, it's clutched tightly in the palm of his hand, so tightly he fears he'll tear it, this artifact from another life. Another universe.

Irene may hold his hand through all of it, but it's Molly's face he sees, Molly's face he pictures.

 _He doesn't know how she's doing right now but he hopes that she is well._


	15. Epilogue: Through The Bars of a Rhyme

Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended.

* * *

 **EPILOGUE: THROUGH THE BARS OF A RHYME**

* * *

 _St Barts Pathology Lab_

 _Three Years Later_

"I'm not bloody working with that wanker again."

And intern Katya Amineva pulls off her plastic gloves. Tosses them towards the bio-hazard bin.

She misses and Molly cocks an eyebrow at her, holding her gaze as the young woman stomps over to the discarded gloves and picks them up. Opens the bin and- with more force than strictly necessary- throws them in.

That accomplished she stomps over to the other side of the path lab, muttering viciously under her breath about this "wanker," who she's so vehement she won't work with, some new consultant for Scotland Yard, apparently-

Praying for patience, Molly rolls her eyes heavenward.

 _Katya's a gifted young woman but bloody Hell, she likes her drama_.

Molly, on the other hand, long ago accepted that she doesn't like drama. Three years, two boyfriends and a girlfriend later and she knows drama is the last thing she enjoys. So with that in mind she holds up a silencing hand, waits patiently for Amineva to run out of steam.

This she duly does. Eventually she even stops muttering in Russian.

"If the wanker is question came in with DI Lestrade," Molly points out when she falls silent, "then we have no right to bar him- Unless of course, he did something untoward. Did he, Katya?"

The young woman glowers but shakes her head mulishly. "No," she bites out. The words sound pulled out of her. "He did not. He did not even look at me. He just acted like a-"

"Wanker," Molly finishes for her. "I know. You said- Repeatedly.

"But we work with the Met and we have to give them every cooperation, especially in the case of a serial killer, which is what I gather this consultant is working on." She shoots the young woman her sternest look, one she's practiced good and hard these last three years. It has its usual effect: she glares right back and Molly has to fight back the urge to grin.

She likes Amineva's bottle, even if she sometimes finds it tiring.

"So if you can't work with Scotland Yard," she continues, "then you're going to have difficulty in this lab, is that clear, Dr. Amineva?"

The young woman actually pouts, but she acquiesces. "Yes, Dr. Hooper," she says. Her expression suggests she'd like to say rather a lot more but knows it wouldn't be politic. "I have some cultures I'd like to check: Do you require anything else here?"

Molly knows a dodge when she hears one but she shrugs. Nods.

 _Best let the woman get her feelings off her chest somewhere else._

"Go ahead," she says. "I'll call you if I need anything." She's barely finished the words before the other woman's out the door, her feet moving so fast she practically leaves vapour trails and Molly shakes her head. Smiles.

She wonders what this new assistant of Greg's could have done to have set so many interns- _Katya is far from the first_ \- into such an uproar.

And as if summoned by her thoughts she hears the outer lock for the doors buzz, gets up and checks the security cameras. She sees DI Lestrade outside, another man at his elbow though he has his back to the camera.

"Let us in, Mols," Lestrade calls into the intercom and she buzzes him in.

He scrambles through the door uncertainly, still not used to the new security measures introduced in the wake of the Moran case and the subsequent bomb threats from his shadowy organisation. The man who's with him follows rapidly behind, head ducked, his eyes on his shoes apparently as he shuffles into the path lab. Molly opens her mouth to greet him and at the precise moment she does he looks up. Blue-green eyes meet hers and narrow. Focus on her.

She takes in a quick, sharp breath as she recognises him.

"Sherlock?" she breathes out and as she does Greg chortles blokishly. _He really can be a git sometimes_ , she finds herself thinking. Sherlock says nothing however, just stares at her. The silence is charged with something… Something she'd really rather not think about. Her stomach plummets, ties itself into knots and suddenly, just for a moment she's that nervous little mouse she used to be. But then-

"Dr. Hooper," Sherlock says, inclining his head sharply and holding his hand out to shake.

Without saying a word she accepts the greeting; Her fingers feel rather small in his.

"Hello, Mr..?" She's not entirely sure what name he'll be using- _He has had a few of them, in her experience-_ but the one he gives is familiar.

"Holmes," he supplies. She smiles, pleased to see he's gone back to his real one. His eyes skitter uncomfortably over to Lestrade and then back again and his voice turns uncomfortable. "I mean, I don't expect you to remember. I never gave you my surname that time we met. Which isn't now. But which is, of course, how you know me..."

Again his gaze flickers nervously to the DI.

Not that the other man notices. "Course it is," he laughs. His expression is mischievous. "Up to no good, were you, Sherlock?" he asks and the other man narrows his eyes at his companion. His expression might almost be amused.

"Quite the opposite, Gavin," he says primly. Lestrade scowls at being called the wrong name and Sherlock flashes Molly a winning smile. "Dr. Hooper provided me with some rather important information for a former case," he elaborates,"I merely never had the opportunity to formally introduce myself fully- Apologies, for that, Dr. Hooper."

Despite herself, despite three years and oh so many experiences between them, she finds herself smiling. "You've nothing to apologise for, Mr. Holmes-"

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Ok." There's something in the way he says those words, something in the tone that strokes along her spine. Sets her skin tingling. It's so obvious that even Greg notices it, and normally the man wouldn't notice a woman's reactions if they drove an articulated lorry into him whilst wearing a Santa hat.

Both she and Sherlock clear their throats at the same time and the DI smiles.

Sherlock shoots him a look which seems to indicate that he thinks he's an imbecile.

"I'll just head down to the back lab and check out the latest body," Lestrade says airily then, edging past Molly. "Is Hancock down there?"

"He is," she answers, unwilling to take her eyes of Sherlock.

"Then I'll get him to show me the body- Join me whenever you're ready, Sherlock." He snickers. "If you're ever ready, that is."

And with that the DI hurries down towards the morgue, whistling an entirely too-jaunty tune as he goes. The door separating the path lab and the building beyond closes loudly behind him and suddenly it's just Molly and Sherlock in the room.

 _It feels like an awfully big room._

They stare at one another, mouths opening, each of them about to speak and yet clearly not knowing what to say to one another, but then-

"New business?" Molly asks.

He nods. "New business. Actually an old one, the one I always wanted to get into."

And he trails off, eyes dropping from hers while his cheeks… It's the most unexpected thing but they start to pink, ever so slightly. It's rather obvious, with his pale colouring, and Molly doesn't know what to make of it: _What sort of former prostitute blushes?_

The silence stretches out.

"Nobody knows what I used to do for a living," he says eventually.

She holds her hand up in the Scouts' Honour symbol. "Then they won't hear it from me, I promise." She shrugs, feeling awkward though she can't guess why. "It is, after all, the least I can do."

He looks up at that, his gaze speculative. Interested. His eyes go to her ring finger and when he sees it's bare he seems to relax a little; Unlike the Molly Hooper of three years ago, this Molly isn't discomfited by that, or surprised.

 _She is, she has learned, more than interesting enough to hold anyone's attention._

He opens his mouth, about to say something else apparently, and as he does his phone rings. It's so loud it makes Molly jump, breaking the tension between them. She turns back to her desk, begins shuffling papers even as she watches him from the corner of her eye. He pulls out his mobile, looks at the name and grimaces before taking the call. When he puts it to his ear he rolls his eyes and mouths _Sorry_ to her.

She mouths back that _It's Fine_ and it is- She welcomes the chance to get her thoughts in order.

He mumbles a couple of yesses into the phone, addressing them to someone apparently called John and when he hangs up he exhales loudly. Suddenly his calm, cool exterior seems ever so slightly flustered.

Suddenly he reminds her of that man she'd know again.

"That was John," he says, uncomfortable to the silence apparently. "My flatmate- He wanted to know whether I'd talked to you or whether I'd, and I quote, "buggered things up and chickened out at the last minute…""

She looks at him sharply. "You told him about me?"

He nods. "I had to. He wouldn't bloody shut up about how nervous I looked when I was getting ready to come here." He shakes his head, expression turning long-suffering, speaking over her before she has a chance to ask him what he means. "I tell you," he's saying, "these free-range relationships are a pain in the arse sometimes. All that respecting people and not being able to shut them up with sex or the promise of it, it's exhausting."

She can't help her smile. "And yet you soldier on?" she asks tentatively.

He looks at her, expression suddenly serious. "I soldier on," he says. "Been out of the game for a while- Don't miss it." He ducks his head, inspects his shoes. "Only thing I ever really missed about it was you- Not, I mean, that that's why I'm here. The police find me very useful. My clients find me very useful-"

For a moment she stares at him, wishing she knew what to say. Wishing she knew what this could mean for her. _You don't need to be useful, Sherlock_ , she wants to tell him though she's not sure how. But then-

"I had best go down and see Lestrade," he says softly. "It was nice to catch up, I- I hope we get the chance to do so again."

Without saying a word he nod to her and strides back towards the door to the morgue, his long black coat billowing behind him, his shoulders hunched and defensive-looking.

Molly watches him go, feeling oddly bereft- More bereft than she's felt in a long, long while.

* * *

It's that night, when she's in the ladies' changing room and getting out of her white coat that she finds the note.

It's filthy and folded and wrinkled-looking, the paper almost worn to tissue but she can still read what it says.

 _The address is 221B Baker Street,_ he has scribbled. _The name is Sherlock Holmes, and if you can't get through to me, ask for John Watson instead._

 _I would really like to see you again, Molly. Please._

 _Yours, Sherlock._

She stares at it, unsure of what it means. What she should do. For a moment she almost considers binning it, turning it over and over in her hands, but then-

Her eyes are drawn to the back of the paper and she realises: It's the same note she gave him three years ago. The same one she wrote her details on, even if he never got in touch. Even though he disappeared from her life as quickly as he entered it, his effect obvious to all around her even though he himself was gone.

 _He kept it,_ she thinks, puzzled. _Why would he have kept it?_

 _Why have you never let yourself forget him?_ Some voice within her whispers and she knows she has her answer right there.

So she tucks the note into her coat pocket. Finishes dressing herself. She washes her hair and puts on a little makeup for good measure; She's more confident these days and it shows. _She hopes he'll like the woman he helped turn her into._ She's not sure what she'll do if he doesn't (though she's sure she'll survive it) but then-

He's dressed in a ratty blue dressing down, a violin at his shoulder when he answers the door to Baker Street.

When he kisses her in greeting and leads her inside Molly realises- She quite likes things, right here. She'd quite like this to be her new normal, if she gets a choice. So she follows him into his flat and up the stairs. As she does so they're both smiling.

She will, she realises, have to tell Meena eventually and it will be excruciating- But eventually's not right now.

 _After all, a little wait certainly helped her._

* * *

A/N A thank you to all of you who have read this far, I hope you enjoyed it. And a thank you to everyone who helped me, I hope you enjoyed yourselves too. Hav a good Christmas and hobbits away, hey!


End file.
